The Last War
by Ser Kurt Wagner
Summary: Picking up at the start of Season 7 of the HBO series, this alternate ending fulfills the original 10 season offer and takes our favorite heroes and villains into new and adventures and alliances on the way towards an epic conclusion.
1. Dragonstone

**The Neck**

A flickering fire glimmers in the vast, treacherous wilderness of the Neck. The croaking of bullfrogs and the deeper, foreboding growl of a lizard-lion fail to disturb the gaunt figure hunched by the dancing light. He is bent over a scattered set of rune stones, examining their arcane symbols. Having reached a conclusion, he scoops them back into a worn leather pouch and returns it to his belt, where the flames reveal the black and white sigil of the Faceless Men. Looking out across the bog, he sees the lights of The Twins in the distance. A girl has stolen herself from the Many-Faced God, he thinks. Such a crime cannot be left unpunished.

* * *

**The Twins**

Within the stones of the ancient seat of House Frey, Lord Walder and his young new wife are hosting a great feast, the second in a fortnight, strange for the notoriously stingy lord. But his invitation had been a demand, and the hall is overfull of every Frey man within reach of the Twins.

Ser Emmon Frey, small, thin and very bald, picks at his food. Travel has always given him an upset stomach. It had no such affect upon his sons, Cleos and Lyonel.

"Two feasts in a fortnight!" Cleos laughs, already drunk, it seems. "Perhaps age has finally caught up to old Walder!"

"Hush!" Emmon hisses, as if Cleos were yet a child and not a man-grown, with sons of his own. "Respect your grandfather, in the least so long as we are under his roof."

His eyes past over his brothers and their issue. Even he has lost track of them all, but there are a few he yet knows. His elder brother, Stevron, died at Oxcross. Near the front of the hall is his eldesr, Ser Ryman, heir to the Twins, and Ryman's own sons, whose names he cannot recall. Then there is his younger brother, Aenys, and his sons. And countless half-brothers and nephews and grand-nephews. But he does not note Lothar or Black Walder. He did not bemoan their absence, the most miserable of a miserable clan.

Every other man of House Frey and toiled and schemed, betrayed their kin and groveled at their cruel father's feet, naming half their children for him, each hoping to one day take his seat as Lord of the Crossing. But Emmon had always hated the Twins. And so he had married well, claimed his own wealth, free of Old Walder, and now his banners flew above Riverrun itself, and his son's after him. House Frey of Riverrun. Now that was a good sound. He smiles at the thought.

The doors open and a line of serving girls bring out new pitchers of wine. Walder is standing now and calling for silence He seems more limber than Emmon remembered. His change in fortunes must be good for the health. Mayhaps he will yet outlive us all. Wouldn't that be a cruel jape?

"Don't think I haven't heard all your whispers!" the old man coughs. Emmon glares at his sons, both too drunk to be nrevous. "Two feasts, so soon? Old Walder's gone soft! But I ask you, is it soft to enjoy the spoils of victory? To revel in justice served to those who mocked us for generations? To celebrate the death of our foes? No! It is not! That's why I've summoned every Frey worth a damn back here. To get a taste of how a Great House lives!"

Emmon rushes to his feet. "A toast! To my father, Lord Walder Frey!"

"His father and mine!" Aenys stands and shouts alongside him.

'And mine!" Another Frey shouts, soon all the crowd is standing and cheering, drinking from the new wine. It has a strange smell to it, Emmon thinks. And then the back of his throat begins to itch.

"Oh, but this toast is not for me!" Walder croaks. "It is for you! The brave men who have made Frey a name to be feared, not scorned!"

It's clear Emmon is not the only of his kin feeling suddenly ill. He beings the scratch at his neck, the itch turning to a burn. And then, horror as Cleos vomits blood onto the table, dropping back into his chair, convulsing. But Walder talks on.

"The Red Wedding! That's what they call it! They've written songs! Have ye' heard them? As long as men speak, they will sing of my sons. So brave to invite their king into their home! So noble to murder him, his lady wife, his mother, every last one. Only the greatest of men could do such a thing! And now we get what we deserve."

Emmon begins to sway, his vision blurred with red, He has forgotten his sons, lying twisting on the floor beside him. In his mind, there is only the pain. Around him, his brothers and their kin cough, gasp for air, claw at their throats or peer into their empty cup for some manner of explanation.

His mouth is wet, he thinks, and wipes it in his haze. It's red. Red, the color of his lady wife.

_Genna... _Is his final thought, and the the floor is rising up to meet him.

As the last of the Frey men collapse in convulsions to the floor, the terrified lady of The Twins looks to her old husband in horror. Walder turns to her with empty eyes as his hands grasp his scalp and pull. Her shock can only grow deeper as the lord's face peels off with a sickening sound to reveal a girl she does not know.

Arya Stark.

"When people ask you what happened here, tell them the North remembers. Tell them winter came for House Frey."

* * *

**Dragonstone**

Three dragons soar above Daenerys Targaryen's fleet of Ironborn and slaver ships, now emblazoned in her own imagery, as they cut swiftly across the water toward the ancient island fortress of Dragonstone. Atop its ramparts, the stark black and red flags of House Targaryen already wave. The dragon queen herself stands at the bow of the leading ship, the spray of the ocean rising up to meet her face. Tyrion Lannister is proudly by her side.

"So it's true," Daenerys sighs wistfully. "My brother always said the people kept our banners waiting, longing for the day we would come home. I don't think I ever believed him then. But there they are."

"Well, I can't promise you a parade in the streets, my queen," Tyrion said. "But it seems your new allies have done good work to make you welcome."

Sure enough, standing at attention as Daenerys and her allies arrive before the great gates of Dragonstone, she finds Lady Olenna Tyrell waiting with a compliment of soldiers from The Reach, alongside Ellaria Sand, flanked by her loyal Sand Snakes. The time for introductions will be later, however. Daenerys flows past them into the fortress, as if walking on air.

"I didn't expect her to bring the dwarf," Ellaria grumbles.

"I thought she'd be taller," Olenna shrugs as they turn to follow her, this strange girl from across the sea who they have named their queen.

Inside, Daenerys runs her hands along the cold stone walls, now cleansed of the Usurper's banners and colored by Targaryen Red, Tyrell Green, and Martell Yellow. She slips off her shoes to feel the rock beneath her feet. It seems to come alive as she walks the halls. Her home, the birthplace she never truly knew, rises up to meet her. Each new room comes to life from the stories of her childhood - before Drogo, before the dragons and the slavers. Before she was queen.

Tyrion follows her dutifully, wishing he could share just a bit of her wonder. At once, she seems not so much the queen he is sworn to serve, but a girl again, dreaming of a distant land across the sea. Then, they reach the war room and the queen returns. Running her hands over the table map carved by her ancestors, she finally acknowledges her Hand's presence.

"This is where it all began. Aegon's Conquest, three hundred years ago," her eyes stray out through the great window, over Blackwater Bay.

"Indeed," Tyron nods. "And it is here we will plan your own."

"These women Varys brings me as allies... Can they be trusted?"

"They are very powerful allies, with vast armies and wealth at their command," he answers, eying the markers on the table. "They've sent word to every noble house declaring for you and bidding the other lords do the same. And I can assure you, they hate my sister more than anyone in Westeros."

"But..." Daenerys eyes him, knowlingly.

"But what?"

"You are a miserable little man. I can always tell when you are about to cast a shadow upon things."

Tyrion sighs, turning a Tyrell marker over in his hands.

"Hate makes a sharp knife, but weak rope. It will serve you well as a weapon, but it cannot hold together an alliance."

"Then we must give them something to believe in. Call them in. It's time to take back my throne."

* * *

**King's Landing**

In a plaza of the Red Keep, the sun shines softly down on a young painter, bent over on the ground as he fills in meticulously traced lines with vibrant paints from across the Narrow Sea. His brush is bringing to life a great map of all Westeros, spanning the entirety of the plaza floor. The work is almost done, but each stroke grows more tense than the last under the watchful gaze of his queen, who stands mere feet away.

"Cersei!" A voice calls out. The startled painter's brush slips. In terror, he looks up to ensure the queen has not seen, but she has thankfully turned her attention to Ser Jaime Lannister as he strides into the courtyard. Reading the implicit need for his departure, the painter hurriedly gathers his tools and leaves.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Cersei moves tenderly toward her brother, pointing to the mural. "And now all of it is ours."

"I believe there is no shortage of men who would disagree," Jaime is not here as a lover, much to the queen's disappointment. "The Tyrells and Ellaria Sand have pledged their land to the Dragon Queen. Her fleet has docked at Dragonstone. And…"

"I know all this," Cersei offers a glass of wine, which is declined. She takes it herself. "I am the queen. And you are the leader of my armies. You shall make short work of all traitors."

"No, Cersei. I need to stay here, with you." The queen is caught off guard by her brother's sudden defiance. "You need me. We need each other. We can't afford any more…"

"Any more what, brother?" In an instant, Cersei's mood has changed. All romantic pretense is gone, replaced by an icy glare fueled by a conflict she thought finished.

"Any more rash decisions. You…"

"I did what had to be done to protect our family!"

"Our son is dead! Our last child!" Jaime storms forward, cornering his sister against one of the dark, red pillars of the plaza, burning with an anger he never knew he could hold toward her.

"Our son died the day that whore gave him over to the sparrows." The response is stern and factual, but Cersei turns away to hide a single tear, wishing she could blink away any deeply buried regrets so easily as the salty drop. "The only thing that matters now is us."

"Which is why you need allies." Jaime, quickly regaining his composure, regrets the outburst at once. Gently, he pulls his sister back to him in an embrace.

"Half the kingdoms are ruled by traitors or dead men," she says. "I have already spoken with Lord Tarly and Lord Dondarrion. I have made them Lords Paramount of the Reach and the Stormlands, as well as Wardens of the South and East."

"House Arryn has always been the Warden of the East."

"Their lord is a sickly boy."

"Lord Petyr Baelish holds..."

"Littlefinger has led his armies to join with Ned Stark's bastard in the North. The Vale cannot be trusted. Harlan Dondarrion will bring them in line. And I have assurances from Ser Gerald Dayne that Dorne will soon be returned to loyal hands."

Jaime cannot help but be impressed. "But what of the Small Counsel?"

"Reassembled. Anyone still uneased shall soon be placated. Then all the seven kingdoms will see that none dare challenge us."

At this, Cersei leans back to accept Jaime's kiss, with all of Westeros freshly painted at their feet.

* * *

**Winterfell**

Jon Snow looks down at the summons, signed with the sigils of House Tyrell and Ellaria Sand. Placing it on the table before him, he looks up at his sister, Sansa, with tired eyes.

"You need to know you have my full trust," he says, the weight of the world upon his words. Sansa takes a step back.

"You can't mean you're thinking of going?" she protests.

"Maester Wolkan says Dragonstone holds the largest known deposit of dragon glass. We need the glass. And we need her support."

"Jon!" Sansa tries to stop her half-brother as he moves to leave, but he does not listen. Donning his heavy fur cloak, he marches sternly down the halls toward the yard. Sansa rushes after him, her mind racing.

"I will take Ser Davos and a dozen men, we will sail from White Harbor. Their absence will be no burden to you."

"It's not the men I'm worried for, Jon. It's you! Your place is here! The lords will not understand…"

"Then you must stay to make them understand," Jon stares back at her with eyes as cold and serious as winter. "I have to go. We need the glass."

"Then send Davos with Lord Glover, or one of the Manderlys! You are our king!"

"I did not ask to be king."

"None of us asked for any of this!" Sansa struggles to stay calm. Losing her temper will solve nothing. "If we all got what we wanted, father would still be sleeping in his bed, not you!"

"Our father knew his duty. And I know mine. I must represent the North and plead our case before Daenerys Targaryen."

Sansa nearly chokes at that. "Have you forgotten what the last Targaryens did to our family?"

Jon has no answer. He hugs her, but there is no warmth. "Take good care of Ghost, for me."

At that , the Lord of Winterfell and King in the North turns and walks out into the yard. The cold winter air washes over Sansa's face for a moment before the heavy wooden doors slam shut again. A single snowflake lights upon her cheek. As it melts, she stands alone. Again, again, all alone.

* * *

**Somewhere in the Riverlands**

Sandor Clegane watches as the contents of Thoros' flask soak into the dirt of a freshly dug grave. The drunken priest had helped him bury the bodies, now decomposed beyond recognition, but Sandor knows all too well who they were in life.

He hadn't wanted to stop here at this hovel. He knew at first sight he had been here before, in another life, when The Hound and Arya Stark had sought shelter here. A farmer and his daughter had welcomed them in, but The Hound had robbed them. And now here they lie, more victims of the violence that follows him, no matter what name he calls himself. Just like Brother Ray. Just like Arya Stark, most likely.

They would have died soon enough, anyway, Sandor reminds himself again and again. Doesn't make the darkness go away. Thoros is mumbling some incoherent prayer in an Eastern tongue, but that is no interest to Sandor, as he slouches back into the hovel, ducking to enter. Inside, what remains of Beric Dondarrion's Brotherhood Without Banners reclines. Tom O'Sevenstreams is composing a new song, Anguy the Archer tightens his bowstrings. Beric himself is, as always, staring into the fire.

"Close the door, Hound!" Jack, gripes. "Lucky" as the Brothers call him, beaten and torn from decades of brawls and battles. Sandor would have gladly left him behind at some inn, but the old bastard just keeps limping along beside them.

"Come by the fire with me, Clegane," Beric summons. Sandor follows, reluctant to sit so near the flame, but he knows their leader will not relent.

"Your god has no words for me, Beric," he grumbles.

"The Lord of Light has a message for us all," Beric shakes his head, the fire glowing in his one good eye. "Don't you think you have a purpose?"

"A purpose? No. I have a curse. Death follows me. If I have a purpose, it's to find a place far away, where no one else can be hurt by my fault, and stay there 'til I rot."

"You think our god punishes you for your sins?"

"I think the gods don't give a shit about me. Or anyone else. If they deal out punishments, you must have been the worse of us all. They're damned detirmined not to let you die."

"Aye, perhaps," Beric muses, suddenly saddened. "I was a vain man once, I chased false glory. I had brothers I cared not for, a betrothed I never intended to marry, a lordship I spurned. And now all those memories are burned away, more with each life. Before, I lived without purpose. Now the Lord will not let me rest until I fulfill the one he has chosen for me."

"Whatever you wanna call it," Sandor shrugs and leaves his new leader to find a dark corner in which to sleep. But in his dreams, he only sees fire. Fire and ice.

* * *

**Oldtown**

In the great harbor of Oldtown, with the eternal flame of the mysterious Hightower looking down like an ever-watching foreman's eye, scores of men toil away in the shipyards, at work on a vast fleet. The sounds of their labor ring out over the legendary city in its ancient splendor. Oldtown appears glorious beyond the wildest legends told of King's Landing. But here, they are all true.

None of this beauty or mystery can resonate with Samwell Tarly, however. Things had started off well enough. He was welcomed as a novice despite his age, thanks in no small part to the respect owed to Maester Aemon, who Sam now missed more every day. And the Citadel itself has not disappointed. It is everything he ever imagined. But his place is a far cry from his old dreams. A novice studies little and works much. And even alongside his peers he has little camaraderie.

He is at least five years older than the oldest novice, a fact the Seneschal's assistant Pate had made quite clear. The pig-faced lad had quickly taken a dislike to him. Seneschal Ebrose himself, the old archmaester in charge of discipline and governance, was exactly the type Sam had hoped an archmaester would be - like a grandfather to all, old and wise with a sharp wit. But he saw little enough of him. And no amount of niceties from the old man could lighten Sam's daily routine.

His days are an endless string of emptying filth from bedpans, cleaning those same bedpans and eating all too familiar looking gruel from an all too familiar looking pan, alone in the mess hall. His thoughts as he stares down at his gruel are almost always of Gilly and Little Sam, subsisting off funds procured from Horn Hill, hidden away in a rented hovel. But the funds will be gone soon, and it is not easy to find a job for Gilly, so long as Little Sam demands her attention. But it is during one of these miserable meals that someone finally noticed him.

"It does get better, you know. Eventually they let you cart around the archmaesters' books instead of their shit." The voice was soft, Sam almost thought it to be a woman's. Looking up, he sees a young man, hair shaved close to his head, with smooth, precise features and teak-colored skin. He wears the metal collar of an acolyte, none of whom had yet to speak anything but harsh commands in Sam's direction.

"I'm Alleras," the young man smiles and takes a seat across the table, his own meal a far cry better than that allotted to Sam. "But most here call me The Sphinx."

"Like the riddle?"

"You could say that."

"Well, I'm Samwell Tarly," Sam eagerly extends his hand in greeting. For all his life, he had dreamed of reaching the Citadel. The reality until this moment had proved crushing. But if he could make just one friend, he thought, perhaps it would all work out in the end.

* * *

**King's Landing**

Queen Cersei strides confidently through the halls of the Red Keep, Jaime at her side in full Lannister armor, discussing matters of the realm.

"You've made Ser Steffon Master of Law?" he asks incredulously. "House Swyft's vaults are empty and his father is a coward."

"That is all true," Cersei concedes. "But their house is highly respected in the West and Ser Steffon's sudden promotion has made him conveniently forget that his sister and brother-in-law were in the Sept of Baelor when it was so tragically destroyed."

Jaime grimaces at this. He knows that no one believes Cersei's claims that the wildfire explosion was an accident. And in truth, he thinks his sister wants the people to know it was her.

As they reach the Small Council chamber, their progress is brought to a halt by the sudden appearance of Lord Tytos Brax. A small weasel of a man with squinting eyes, he is dressed in a gaudily luxuriant purple and silver doublet, pinned together by an oversized amethyst unicorn, the sigil of his house.

"My queen, I am so grateful to have just run into you like this," he speaks with nasal flattering. "You see, I had heard a rumor that you had made Wylis Manderly the new Master of Coin."

Cersei smiles, forcibly polite. "Perhaps I should have made you Master of Whisperers, Lord Tytos, you speak correctly."

Tytos sputters at the realization and the Lannisters turn away. Regaining his composure, however, he once more steps into their path.

"My queen, with all due respect, House Manderly is, along with the whole of the North, in open rebellion against the crown! Whereas House Brax as made considerable donations to…"

"How long do you think Wyman Manderly will kneel to Ned Stark's bastard while his own son is here in King's Landing?" Cersei has had enough of the petty lord. "Now leave us be, Tytos. You must learn to see the bigger picture, you'll last longer that way."

With that, the queen and her brother enter the chamber, letting the door slam in Tytos' face. Jaime, for the first time since returning to King's Landing, feels a rush of pride as he steps in remembering how, when he was still Lord Commander of the King's Guard, he was denied a seat at the table. None here now would dare deny him access.

Standing at attention upon their queen's arrival are Ser Balon Swann, the broad-chested, modest hero of the Stormlands, first Lord Commander of the new Queensguard. Ser Steffon Swyft, with a hooked nose and shock of yellow hair rivalling the rooster of his sigil, now the Master of Laws. Arthur Waters, still but a small lad, the eldest of the little birds now sworn to Qyburn. Cleaned to seem presentable, perhaps for the first time in his life, he seems almost highborn as Master of Whisperers.

Across the table is Lord Randyll Tarly, a hard man with harder features and a face devoid of emotion, befitting the Master of War. Beside him, a more shocking contrast seemingly impossible, sits the rotund, heavily mustached figure of Ser Wylis Manderly, Master of Coin. Qyburn, Hand to the Queen, bows to Cersei as she takes her seat. At her approval, the counsel sits and the meeting begins in earnest.

"Daenerys Targaryen has landed at Dragonstone," Lord Tarly bluntly asserts the thought on everyone's mind. "She brings with her a vast fleet and uncounted hordes of the Unsullied and Dothraki. She stands allied with House Martell and Ellaria Sand."

"And three dragons!" Ser Wylis Manderly spouts, clearly terrified at the thought.

"The queen knows all of this, my lords," Qyburn smiles. "We have all been aware of her threat for some time now. She is not a surprise arrival on our doorstep."

"Lord Tarly mentioned her fleet," Ser Steffon interjects. "I see we are missing a Master of Ships. What are we to do if she blockades the harbor?"

Qyburn looks to Cersei, unsure of how much information to share.

"We need not fear her fleet, Ser Steffon," Cersei smiles. "As my Hand said, we have had years to await the girl's arrival. There is no threat approaching King's Landing that we have not prepared for."

* * *

**The Twins**

In the Great Hall of the Twins, the men of House Frey lie cold, their bodies frozen in their final twists of agony. The doors of the hall swing open, letting the stench of death wash over the latest arrivals, here to witness the aftermath of Lord Walder's final feast.

The soldiers, miserable little men in the floppy hats distinctive of Frey forces, are brought to a swift halt, gagging at the stench. It does not faze the woman who leads them, however. She is old and fat, but not in a way that speaks weakness, as with so many of the dead men at her feet. Her frame suggests that, if so inclined, she could have personally hurled each member of the house from the ramparts of its highest towers.

Stopping by two of the bodies, she examines the faces of Emmon Frey, her husband, lying dead beside their sons, caught in a grimace of eternal misery. She does not mourn long, however, quickly locating the bag of coin on his waist and moving it to her own.

"My lady!" the soldiers call. She turns to see more guards have arrived, and with them Kitty Frey, the slain lord's child bride. "We also found Edmure Tully roaming the lower levels. I don't think he quite knows what's happened."

"Take him to the wagon," the woman orders, before turning her attention to the girl.

"Can you tell me what happened here, Kitty?" Her voice is suddenly calming, opening the young lady's mouth for the first time since the massacre.

"It.. it was a girl. She was wearing my lord's face, like a mask." The woman is visibly taken aback by the claim, but Kitty persists. "I swear, my lady, by the Seven, it is true! She told me to tell anyone who asked that….. that the North remembers."

Deep in thought, the woman stands back upright. Stepping out of the chamber, she motions to a guard.

"Return the girl safely to her family. And find the maester, if he's still alive. I need to send a message to King's Landing."

"What should I have him say, Lady Frey?"

"No," the woman swiftly turns. "House Frey is dead. I am Lady Genna Lannister, and I want the queen to know I am coming to visit. We have… much to discuss."

* * *

**_Author's Notes_**

_New Cast Including: Camryn Manheim as Genna Lannister, Rick Hoffman as Tytos Brax_

_Welcome to The Last War! I hope you've enjoyed this first chapter. I know that some of these early events heavily parallel what we got in the show, but there are several main events from Season 7 that I feel like were the natural outcomes of the previous buildup. So some moments will be familiar here at the beginning, but new characters like Genna Lannister and Alleras, different choices and the maintaining of character arcs, themes and plot lines that were abandoned in the show will take it in a wildly different direction as time goes on._

_As an aspiring writer, there's nothing I love more than feedback (except maybe getting hired for a writing job) so please, leave and thought, questions, comments or critiques in the reviews below. Every little bit is appreciated!_


	2. Stormborn

**S07E02 – Stormborn**

* * *

**Winterfell**

"Where is Jon Snow?"

The deep, bass voice of Lord Wyman Manderly bellows out over the crowded Great Hall, silencing the small conversations of the assorted lords and their fellows. The heavyset old man has spoken the question on the mind of every soul in the room. Sansa Stark, seated at the head of the Hall, at the lord's table, dreads answering the question. At her side stand Lord Petyr Baelish, Maester Wolkan and Brienne of Tarth. None are northerners, a fact Sansa has never been more aware of than now, as every eye in the room turns to her.

"King Jon has left Winterfell," Sansa struggles to remember her years of practice, to speak with a lady's authority. "He has taken a score of men south to mine dragonglass and beseech the aid of Daenerys Targaryen."

The hall erupts into an uproar of angry, confused shouting.

"Quiet!" Brienne yells out, bringing the lords back to attention. "Lady Stark will answer any of your questions, but you must speak in turn!"

"It's nary been a month since we named him King in the North!" Lord Manderly is the first to speak. "And now he's run south to beg a Targaryen for help?"

"We never should have pledged to a bastard." The words, spoken from some far corner of the room, are offered just loud enough for all to hear, but none dare lay claim to them.

"Who said that?" Sansa rises, her fear suddenly replaced by anger. All is silent. "Jon Snow is the King in the North! He has chosen the path he believes is necessary for us to survive!"

"Lady Stark speaks the truth." Lyanna Mormont, the tiny lady of Bear Island, stands. "It is up to us to defend the realm. We cannot stand divided. Lord Manderly's mind may change like the tides of White Harbor, but mine does not."

"Well spoken, my lady," Yohn Royce of the Vale concurs, with a glare in the Manderlys direction. "King Jon will make his own choices. We should focus on preparing for battle."

"Indeed," Sansa surveys the crowd, ensuring that the dissent has been quelled. Even Lord Manderly seems shamed back to silence. Sansa thinks back to her childhood, when all she ever wanted was to be a wife to some great lord. Now she sits in the chair where her father once sat. With Jon gone, it falls to her to prepare the North. And the North will be ready.

* * *

**Dragonstone**

Lightning cuts violently across the sky, as the howling winds throw massive waves upon the rocky shores. Amidst the thunder and the fury, Tyrion Lannister finds his queen still standing before the window of the war room, unprotected from the storm. Daenerys' brilliant silver hair whips violently, masking her face when she turns at the sound of his entrance, illuminated by another shock from the heavens.

"You should come in, my queen!" Tyrion shouts to be heard over the roaring wind.

She does not move. "They say I was born in a night like this."

"Very true, and if you don't want to die in one, I advise you step away from that window." Daenerys concedes and follows her Hand back inside, the heavy doors slamming loudly behind them. Here, the thunder continues, only slightly muffled by the ancient stone walls.

"After all this time, we're finally here. I'll admit, there were moments when I never thought that it would really happen," the queen stops before the great throne of the castle.

"I, for the record, never doubted you," Tyrion assures her as she takes a seat, thinking back to her years in Essos. For a moment, she is lost in the memories.

"Neither did Ser Jorah," she sighs. "I just wish he was here to see it."

"He was a noble man," Tyrion sits on the steps of the throne.

"Was?" Daenerys asks. "You believe Jorah is dead?"

"I'm afraid the odds are not in his favor, your grace. I've heard tales of greyscale being cured, but he would have to find a truly gifted maester. And I fear he does not have much time."

* * *

**Oldtown -The Citadel**

The sun rises over Oldtown. Sam and Alleras are sitting on the roof of one of the Citadel dormitories before their morning work begins.

"The people of the city can tell the time by the shadow of the tower," Alleras is explaining. "I've heard it's the tallest building in the world. No one knows how it was built."

"Magic?" Sam asks.

"Don't let the archmaesters hear you say that," Alleras laughs. "To hear them talk, there's no such thing... You say you have a wife and child down there?"

"Well, Gilly's not exactly my wife," Sam scratches his head.

"Oh. But the boy's your son?"

"Not exactly…" Sam shrugs sheepishly.

"And they all say I'm complicated," Alleras laughs. "We'd best get going." Moving fluidly, he leaps from roof to ledge down to the ground. Sam looks down as his friend beckons to follow.

"I think I'll go back in the window," he stammers.

"Whatever suits you best, Tarly. Where do they have you today?"

Sam shudders at the thought. "The sick ward."

A short while later, Sam is trundling a rickety cart past the cells of patients with all manner of disease, here at the Citadel in hopes of healing. As he bends down to retrieve a chamber pot, a desperate arm, coated with the cracked, hardened skin of greyscale, swings out from between the bars. Sam jumps back in horror, looking through the small window to see the pained, sweaty face of Jorah Mormont. Through terrible pain, the old knight speaks.

"Please, I know you can't help, but just tell me... Has the dragon queen returned?"

* * *

**The King's Road**

Two roaming criminals, dressed in tattered clothes, have stopped to examine a curious sight tucked away off the side of the great road.

"You think he's dead?" the first asks, looking down at the body of a man, seemingly contorted impossibly into a ball, tucked between the roots of a huge tree, his belongings carefully hidden nearby.

"He sure don't look alive to me," the second laughs, grabbing a small pouch and examining its curious black and white emblem, hoping to find gold. Instead, he tosses out a series of smooth stones carved with bizarre, foreign markings.

"What in seven hells is that?" The two thieves bend down in the dirt to examine the rocks, not noticing their victim silently uncoiling behind them and drawing a long knife.

A man did not expect to present the gift of the Many-Faced God today, he thinks. But he shall oblige nonetheless. And then to find the girl.

* * *

**An Inn in the Riverlands**

For anyone watching, it seems that Black Walder Rivers, Walder Frey's bastard son, is dismounting his horse and handing the reigns to a stable boy. The truth, however, can be seen at his side, where the sword Needle rests. Wearing the face of one of her many recent victims, Arya Stark confidently enters the inn, tossing a pile of coin in front of the innkeeper.

"Your best room," she says gruffly, still slightly startled by the sound of her own altered voice. As she sits down at a table to claim food and drink, she catches the eye of a round baker boy, hustling through with a load of fresh bread. She recognizes him instantly, Hot Pie, the lad she once knew. It seems a lifetime ago. Those memories are not ones she needs clouding her mind right now, she cannot be distracted from her mission. Arya turns away and, in the harsh tones of Black Walder, calls for a beer.

* * *

**Dragonstone**

The landscape of the island has been completely transformed by the massive camps of the Unsullied, Ironborn and Dothraki. The fortress itself is alive with soldiers restoring it to functioning order. In the yard, the Sand Snakes, Oberyn Martell's formidable daughters, practice combat until Obara, the eldest, notices a group of Ironborn leering at them.

"Looking for sparring partners?" Obara smiles mockingly. She saunters over to the group, with Tyene and Nymeria close behind. "We've all heard of the ferocity of the Ironborn men. Surely you wouldn't mind showing some little southern girls how an islander fights?"

Confronted by the mocking warrior's challenge, Theon Greyjoy finds himself sweating profusely, despite the cool ocean breeze that washes over the island. He looks to make a swift exit, but suddenly finds his companions have deserted them. Tremoring, he turns back to find Nymeria inches from his face.

"You're Yara's brother aren't you?" Nymeria smiles, brandishing her whip. "Show us, Greyjoy. Does her valor run in your blood?" Obara tosses a sword at Theon. He fumbles catching it and clatters to the ground. Nervously, Theon ducks down to grab it, only to be promptly kicked over into the dust. Scrambling to his feet, he grasps the blade with two shaking hands. Nymeria stalks in a circle around him, like a shadowcat hunting its prey.

Theon lashes out, desperately trying to remember his past days as a fighter. His jabs and thrusts are wild and frantic; Nymeria easily dodges them nimbly until, with a single flick of her whip, she takes him to the ground. He shudders, face in the dirt, closing his eyes until the Sand Snakes walk away, thoroughly disappointed.

Not far away, in the castle's war room, Yara Greyjoy is unaware of her brother's humiliation. She stares intently at the carved markers covering the board, then up at the grim faces of those crowding the meeting. At the head of the table, Queen Daenerys is flanked by Varys and Tyrion Lannister. Around the table are Ellaria Sand, the Unsullied Commander Grey Worm, Dothraki riders Jakarro and Malakho, Missandei of Naath, Lady Olenna Tyrell and Ellaria Sand.

Yara has already spoken her mind. A sudden and immediate siege of King's Landing will ensure a swift victory with minimal losses on their side. Nearly all present are in agreement. But Lord Tyrion Lannister, the Queen's Hand, has proven difficult to convince. He argues that they must wait until they can mobilize the armies of the Reach and Dorne.

"If we attack now, the people of Westeros will only see you as an invading force," the Hand protests. Varys nods in agreement.

"What does the queen care of what the people think of her army?" Olenna snaps back. "She is the queen. The throne belongs to her."

"And yet our queen does not simply want the throne. She wants the hearts of the people."

"I still say just get it over with!" Olenna scoffs.

Daenerys' eyes silently glance around the table, finally falling to Missandei, who has not spoken a word the entire meeting.

"Missandei," she asks, "what do you think?"

"I believe Lord Tyrion speaks wisely, your grace," she says, softly. "Aegon the Conqueror would not hesitate to attack the city now. But I do not believe you wish to be Aegon, raining fire again upon the people of this land. You are the mother of dragons and breaker of chains, not a queen of the ashes." All eyes turn back to Daenerys. The room is silent. Yara stares into her vibrant blue eyes, trying to decipher her thoughts. Finally, she speaks.

"No. I am not the Conqueror," Daenerys begins to arrange markers on the map. "We shall summon the men of the South. But we must cut off Cersei's support in the West. Grey Worm will take the Unsullied to seize Castlery Rock. The Reach will join Dorne and march North."

"My queen, may I request the Greyjoy fleet accompany me back to Sunspear," Ellaria proposes. "A show of our power would do well to silence any dissent among the lords." Daenerys turns to Yara, who silently nods in consent.

"And so let it begin," the queen commands, fierce and confidently. "Ready the ships to leave on the morning tide."

As the counsel disperses from the war room, Yara lags behind, until only her and Daenerys remain.

"Does something still trouble you, Yara?" Daenerys asks. "Your plan was strong, but Lord Tyrion is right. I did not come here to conquer, but to liberate."

"No, your choice was wise, your grace," Yara stumbles over the language of formalities she has never grown accustomed to. "It's my uncle I'm worried about. No one has seen his fleet since he left the Iron Islands, planning to marry you. As we now stand, there's no telling what he might do. Euron is obsessed with the dark magics, he wants your dragons for himself."

"If Euron Greyjoy seeks to go against my dragons, we shall make short work of both him and his fleet."

"I would advise you to keep your dragons far from his fleet. If only half the legends Euron tells of himself are true, he has great knowledge of dark arts."

"And yet, his ships are but wood," Daenerys smiles. "And all wood burns."

* * *

**New Ghis**

Far across the Narrow Sea, at the mouth of Slaver's Bay, lies this island city, the last remnant of a once great empire. Now in its harbor rest a new fleet of warships, flying Greyjoy sails, led by their king's flagship - The Silence, a massive vessel the likes of which none like it has ever been seen, a writhing monstrosity of sails, masts and rigging, mounted with catapults and a massive gold-plated kraken boarding-ram at its bow. Crowds huddle about in the docks, hoping to get a closer look at the great ship, but none dare venture too close, for all men know the name of its captain and shudder.

The King of the Iron Islands himself now sits in a dark room in a small hovel within the city. Arranged on the table before him, connected by arcane lines, are fourteen dripping candles. And across from him, face illuminated by the flickering light, is a short, strange little man. Skin black as pitch, with thickly braided white hair, each cheek tattooed with an orange flame, Moqorro the Red Priest studies his guest.

"Your markings are of Volantis," Euron examines the priest's face. "What winds have blown you so far?"

"You pay me to read your future, my lord, not yourself to read my past," Moqorro grins through shining teeth. "But if you wish… Well, let us say that I differed with my fellow priests on interpreting the signs."

"I am not a lord. I am a king. How do you interpret my signs?"

Moqorro stares deeply into the flame. "Born of salt, you have lived a life on the sea. The gods made you a younger brother, yet you have cast the weak aside to seize a crown for yourself. You sought a dragon, but now you sit, betrayed by your kin."

"I know all this, old man!" Euron shouts, agitated. "It is no great skill to discern much. My tales are spread, hushed in fear across the known world."

"Aye," the priest's eyes darken. "But that is not enough for you, is it. I see into your mind, you have sung the song of the storm. You among many see the truth beneath this world. You are no kraken, you are something more, but you wait beneath the surface all the same. While the stags and the dragons and lions have played their game of thrones, you have watched like a crow. Now you may rise to pick at the carrion and take your seat atop the world."

For a moment, Moqorro goes silent, before looking up, staring straight into Euron's eyes, glowing with all fourteen flames. He sucks in air, a violent, guttural gasp.

"My king! I see now… You have only yet begun to see the storm that you ride. The Lord of Light has shone upon you. I beg you, let me join your travels. I will guide your path to victory in my lord's name."

Euron stands, contemplating the offer. One by one, he begins to blow out the flames on the table, but it does not faze the old man. Turning away, he pulls back the curtains over the window, flooding the room with light.

"I have many priests in my envoy, all tell me I am their savior. What makes you so special, Moqorro of Volantis?"

"My god is true."

"So say all men of your kind. I do not limit myself to choose only one to bless me."

"I have been to Valyria." This seizes the sea king's attention.

"As have I."

"Have you?" At that challenge, Euron turns ominously. He has half a mind to kill the old man for his insolence. But would any such man dare contradict a claim if he was not so sure? Before he can reply, Moqorro speaks again, removing a smooth black stone chest from the shadows. He opens it, revealing a smooth, curved shell, fashioned like a horn and carved with ancient Valyrian runes. "You seek the higher mysteries. I hold answers. Heed my words and I swear you shall not fail."

Euron takes the case into his own hands, a wicked grin growing on his face.

"Then praise be the Red God."

* * *

**King's Landing**

In the queen's bedchambers, Jaime Lannister awakens with a yawn. He sees Cersei beside him, but any further romantic thoughts are dashed by a knock at the door. He scrambles to clothe himself and find an exit, but Cersei bids him stay.

"I am queen now, brother. It no longer matters who sees us."

Jaime would beg to differ, but Cersei strides to the door nonetheless, swinging it wide open to reveal a timid servant girl who clearly was not expecting the sight before her eyes. Jaime grimaces with shame.

"Your grace," the girl stammers, "Lord Tarly has requested your presence."

"Tell him I will be down momentarily." As the door closes, Cersei begins to dress.

"Randyll Tarly," Jaime spits out the name. "I place no trust in a man who would betray his sworn loyalties to elevate his own house."

"It is no dishonor to betray a traitor," Cersei dismisses his concern.

"And what of your mysterious Master of Ships? The keep is full of rumors. Everyone from Aurane Waters to an eastern sellsail." Jaime moves to help his sister into her gown.

"Let's just say I have reason to believe we shall soon be receiving a most illustrious visitor. I can't tell you everything, dear brother, it would spoil the fun seeing you watch the pieces fall together." With that, and a kiss, Cersei departs, leaving Jaime alone to ponder the wars to come.

* * *

**Dragonstone**

On a terrace overlooking the great garden of Aegon, Daenerys finds Olenna Tyrell looking out wistfully over the sprawling maze of flora. She has only known Olenna for a few days, but has already grown deeply fond of the irreverent matriarch. Daenerys wishes the woman didn't have to leave, but she must rally the Tyrell bannermen. The longer Highgarden sits empty, Tyrion had said, the more tenuous their position becomes.

"Your ship is preparing to leave, Lady Tyrell. Shouldn't you be preparing your things?"

"Oh, my things are prepared," the old woman laughs. "When you are marked for death, you learn to pack light." She takes a seat beside her.

"In all the stories my brother told, he never mentioned these gardens. They're beautiful."

"Yes, yes, it seems wherever I go I wind up stuck with the flowers," she muses. "Whatever became of your brother, anyway?"

"He was killed in front of me, with molten gold."

"Ha! Terrible way to die, I suppose. But good riddance! I must say, I'm glad it's you landing here, instead of him."

"My brother only wanted war," Daenerys thinks back to her childhood. "I am here to bring peace."

"What is peace?" Olenna sighs. Her eyes catch a petal as it slowly drops from its flower. "Whatever you want, girl, you must understand one thing. The people of Westeros are sheep, chasing their own tails. They cannot be led by another sheep. They must have a dragon."

At this, she slowly rises and leaves Daenerys alone, dwelling on her thoughts and looking out over the gardens, where Grey Worm and Missandei walk side by side below. It has given her joy to watch their romance blossom. The stoic Unsullied commander struggles to convey his feelings to Missandei. He has come to say his good byes, the realization of his departure slowly dawning over the both of them. At last, without saying a word, he kisses her, simply and softly. Smiling, she leads him back to her bedchambers. He will not forget his last night on Dragonstone.

* * *

**Oldtown - The Citadel**

In Ser Jorah's holding cell, Sam stands before the stern gaze of Seneschal Ebrose. The old man is not pleased. His assistant, Pate, gloats nearby. Sam had not slept since meeting the knight. The Old Bear's son, he had thought. For all the old Lord Commander had done for him, he owed it to find a way to save Jorah. And deep in the far corners of the great library, he thought he had found an answer. He had rushed to the Seneschal at once. But Ebrose was not so easily convinced.

"Novice Tarly," he sighs, shaking his head. "I've already explained this to you. I cannot allow operation on this man."

"But Seneschal Ebrose, I've found books, I know that it's possible to cure him. I've read in the records…"

"Boy, I assure you there is nothing you have read that I have not. Greyscale cases have in fact been cured. Stannis Baratheon's daughter, for example, I treated myself. But never a patient this old. And never a patient this progressed in the disease." Ser Jorah looks away, the stone-like skin of the plague now covers his entire chest.

Sam protests. "But in Maester Qyburn's records…"

"Maester Qyburn? Damn the man, we should have burned his books the day he left!" the seneschal cuts him off. "That man was mad, his theories of medicine perverse and means of study worse still. No good will come of any method of his!" Deeply offended, he turns briskly to leave.

"How long?" Jorah speaks at last, his voice cracked and raspy.

"Until you die? It will take years I'm afraid. But it will kill your mind far before that. We will arrange a ship to take you to the Ruins of Valyria with the Stone Men. It will be some time, however, before one can be arranged," Ebrose nods at Jorah's sword, carefully tucked away in the corner. "How you choose to spend that time is up to you."

"Good work Tarly," Pate smirks as he follows Ebrose out of the cell. Sam grimaces, and looks back to Jorah a final time.

"I'm sorry," he stammers, but Jorah does not answer. He only stares at his sword. He's truly staring at his own death, Sam thinks. Unable to think of anything more to say, he turns and hurries off, letting the door slowly close behind him, obscuring Jorah from view once more.

* * *

**An Inn in the Riverlands**

Arya tosses and turns in her sleep, still wearing the mask of Black Walder, unwilling to risk anyone here seeing her true face. In her dream, she finds herself back in the halls of the The Twins, at the scene of another feast. But this time is different. This time, Robb is there. And mother! She tries to run to greet them, but is held fast in place.

Suddenly, the joy of her long-lost family turns to horror, as crossbows are drawn and the brutal executions of the Red Wedding begin. She had been spared witnessing the cursed night, but now the massacre plays out as real as day. Arya tries to scream as her brother is murdered, but suddenly finds herself walking to her own mother. Looking down, she sees a knife in her hands and wakes up, ripping off the mask, finally able to scream.

Sitting up in bed, she slowly looks around. The flickering light of a candle illuminates the room, a candle that was not lit when she fell asleep. As she reaches for needle, beside her bed, a tall, gaunt figure emerges from the shadows.

"You didn't know about the dreams," his voice barely hisses out, as if he is a dead man speaking. "You wear a face for so long, you start to feel their life inside of you. A girl would have known such things, if she had not taken herself away from the Many-Faced God. A man let you leave. That was his mistake."

He lunges forward, giant knife drawn. Arya leaps from bed, but is cut in the side. Dodging more strikes, she looks to escape. He blocks the door, so she jumps through the window, Needle in one hand and the mask in the other. Shaking off the pain, she runs into the dark woods outside, only stopping after quite some time. Surely now the man must be lost, she thinks.

And then the wolves begin to howl.

Frantically, Arya lights a fallen branch, mindful of the thick carpet of dead leaves the winter has struck down to the forest floor. But by the time the torch is ablaze, she can already see the hulking shapes of wolves surrounding her, snarling. Then, emerging from the black, the starved man. She lashes out with needle as the two duel in a swirling circle of fire and shadow, surrounded by ravenous beasts, until a swift kick sends Arya to the ground.

The torch hits the ground and a roar of flame ignites the forest floor. She looks to see Needle fallen at the feet of the leader of the pack. Refusing fear, she crawls towards it, but feels cold bony hands wrap around her ankle. Desperate, Arya looks up at the massive wolf, suddenly she recognizes something.

"Nymeria?" for a moment, time seems to freeze as the wolf and the girl lock eyes. Then, a scream of pain as the man's knife pierces her leg and Nymeria leaps. Arya seizes Needle as the howling of the wolves reaches a deafening clamor. The forest is ablaze now, and she flees into the darkness, taking one last look to try and make out the form of her direwolf, running free. On the ground, the face of Black Walder Frey lies abandoned, the fire beginning to catch the tip of his hair.

* * *

**Dragonstone**

Ships bearing the mark of House Targaryen venture forth from Dragonstone, the first to leave already fading over the horizon. Yara's flagship, _The Black Wind,_ is the last to weigh anchor. The Sand Snakes follow Ellaria up the boarding ramp, the Greyjoys waiting impatiently on deck. From the walls of the fortress, Daenerys watches with Tyrion, Varys and Missandei at her side.

"They do not serve me out of love, do they?" she asks.

"I cannot lie to you, my queen," Tyrion shakes his head. "For them, you are a means to exact their own revenge or ambition. But they remain valuable allies."

"For now," Daenerys sighs. "But what will they do once the war has ended and I ride my dragons into King's Landing?"

"They will kneel before you, my grace. Beyond the lords and the ladies and their petty little games, there are millions of people here, broken and abused by tyrants and madmen. It is only a matter of time before the Seven Kingdoms see who you truly are. When they know the truth, then you will find the love that you seek."

Encouraged, Daenerys smiles once more and looks out into the wind at the slowly vanishing sails. This is home, she thinks. This has always been home.

* * *

**CREDITS**

_Special Guest Stars: Doug Jones as The Starved Man_

_For the ease of reading, I will from time to time offer up suggested castings for some of the major new characters I will be introducing. _

_I know that the strategy here was very unpopular when it happened in the show, but at this point Missandei and Tyrion are Dany's most trusted advisors, and they are both inclined to urge the path of least violence. I hope I can make the process come off as more natural in this version of the story, however. And, of course, it is important to have Arya's Braavos arc stay relevant, which pans out here with some particuarily horrifying side-effects of using their magic._


	3. The Heart Tree

**S07E03 – The Heart Tree**

* * *

**WINTERFELL**

Sansa Stark exits the Great Hall with Brienne close by her side, as always. Another tedious meeting of the lords has just ended. Jon had left many appointments unfilled in his brief rule before leaving for Dragonstone. She had named Brienne Master at Arms and Podrick Payne as Captain of the Guards. The lords and ladies had grumbled at that, neither were northerners. But Sansa could trust them. She could say the same of little others, save perhaps Lady Lyanna Mormont and Bronze Yohn Royce.

Infighting consumed all the others. Those who fought for her and Jon quarreled with Alys Karstark and little Ned Umber, just a boy, who ruled their family lands in place of the treacherous lords who had fought and died for the Boltons. Many felt their claims to those lands should have died with them, including Lord Glover and fat, old Wyman Manderly, who had made no secret to believing himself the true power in the North with Jon absent.

But it was Sansa left to preside over the counsels and the endless fights. This time Lord Glover had objected to the suggestion that the North train their women and girls to fight, but he had been quickly shut down by Lady Mormont. The young girl's fierce rebukes of the more obstinate lords had become a common sight in court. Sansa smiled at the thought, though she knows Bear Island holds little power in the grand scheme of things. The smile fades, however, as Littlefinger catches up with her.

"I must speak your praise, my lady," he says in his smoothest voice, ignoring Brienne's glare. "You have managed the court splendidly in your brother's absence. I must confess, it makes me slightly proud."

"I do not need your flattery, Lord Baelish," Sansa silences him. "You remain here because you have sworn the Knights of the Vale to fight with us in the wars to come. But I do not require your counsel."

Littlefinger is taken aback. "Who then would you rather take words from? Lord Glover, who begrudges you? The Cerwyn lad, who I think would only make you his wife? The Manderlys, who want your authority? Or the Mormont girl? She speaks boldly, but defiant speeches can only carry a girl so far…"

"Enough!" Brienne steps between the two. "Lady Sansa is busy."

"I beg your pardon, my lady. You know I only seek the best for you," Lord Baelish bows, and leaves Sansa alone with Brienne, her thoughts and the falling snow.

* * *

**DRAGONSTONE**

Daenerys breathes a sigh of relief as Lord Varys and Missandei carry away two cages of ravens, a gift from Lord Selwyn Tarth. The Lord of the Sapphire Isle has played his cards close to his chest, offering words of support in secret, but publicly proclaiming his loyalty to Cersei, to maintain his strategic hold over the lands once sworn to the now empty Storm's End. Little help, Daenerys thinks to herself. Words are but wind, and she needs banners and swords. Instead she gets chattering birds. Missandei is fascinated by the creatures, which Tyrion claims are used to communicate. But as their deafening caws fades away, Daenerys herself could only wish the maesters had chosen to breed quieter messengers.

"My queen!" An Unsullied sentinel enters the chamber. "A dozen men have landed on the eastern shore! They claim to answer your summons."

A short matter later, Daenerys sits on the throne, the new guests before her. Northmen, by the look of their direwolf banners. They are led by a man of striking beauty she thinks, though he seems horridly uncomfortable in her presence. She hopes he brings more useful gifts than the ravens.

As Missandei completes the introduction of her queen's ever-growing titles, an uncomfortable pause follows.

"Ser Davos," Tyrion quips. "I believe this is the time to present your leader."

At that, the kindly old man steps forward. "This is Jon Snow!" he declares, at a loss for elaboration. "He's the King in the North. The, erm, White Wolf of Winterfell, Twice-Born Ranger and..."

"That is good, onion knight," Tyrion interrupts with a laugh as Davos' imagination trails off.

"You call yourself king?" Daenerys examines the young lord more closely.

"That is what my people have named me," Jon answers humbly.

"You do realize you stand in the presence of the one true queen of all seven kingdoms?" Tyrion asks. "By my last counting, that seven includes the North."

"I serve at the will of my people," Jon insists, calmly. Tyrion moves to retort, but Daenerys bids him calm.

"Tell me, Jon Snow of Winterfell, what is it you have come so far to discuss, if not to bend the knee?"

And so Jon Snow spins his tale. While his claim to royalty is off-putting to, Daenerys cannot help but find him and his sincerity endearing, as Jon lays out his petition – to allow his men to mine the dragonglass on the island. She is less captivated, but amused, by his plea that she turn her attention to a fantastical threat in the far north.

Dismissing the handsome young lord and his funny old companion, Daenerys watches carefully as they leave the throneroom. He seems sincere enough, she thinks. But before, she has trusted and been betrayed. Now her goal is only a bay away. She cannot falter now. But there is something in his eyes. Something more. Perhaps therein lies the answer she has sought.

* * *

**AN INN IN THE RIVERLANDS**

The skies hurl down heavy drops of rain as a weary Arya Stark, scraped and burned, clothes torn, at last makes her way back to the inn where she has left her things. Her wounds grow in pain with each step, but she does not let herself dwell upon them. The storm has vanquished last night's fire and driven a crowd of new travelers to the inn. Arya shudders to see the banners of House Frey and Lannister parked outside, her hand instinctively grasping Needle.

Sneaking around the inn, she tries to enter through the back door, only to come crashing into Hot Pie. No longer disguised, Arya is relieved to see her old friend. He happily answers her request for a meat pie, ale and tidbits of what has transpired in Westeros in her absence.

While Arya dines in the back, however, Genna Lannister sits at a table, tearing apart a chicken whilst seeking to ignore her ingratiating host.

"Is it true what they say?" the innkeeper asks. "Is Lord Frey dead?"

"Aye," she takes a swig of ale. "And all his heirs with him."

"All, my lady? That can't be. Black Walder 'imself bought a room in mine own establishment, just last night!" At this, Genna suddenly stands.

"Show me the room!" She follows him up the stairs. Finding the door locked, the innkeeper breaks it down. Genna prowls the room, searching for evidence. At last, under the mattress she finds a bag. Peering within, she recoils at the sight of Arya's collection of faces. Clenching the bag shut with a gasp, she turns and exits wordlessly.

Arya is saying her good-byes to Hot Pie as Genna stomps down the stairs, loudly ordering her men to ride immediately for Riverrun. She can only watch in horror as she recognizes the bag clutched in the Lady Lannister's hands.

"That's mine," she whispers.

"Well, go get it back," Hot Pie quips. Arya hadn't realized he was still there. "I reckon you could take on the whole Lannister army, 'Arry."

Smiling sadly, she gives him a final farewell hug. "Never die, Hot Pie, alright?"

"Of course not, 'Arry. I'm a survivor, just like you." With that, Arya returns to her horse, riding off in pursuit of the departing wagon and knights, turning towards Riverrun. She rides on, unaware that Lady Genna Lannister herself, with only two men to guard her, has continued south, bag in hand, straight on for King's Landing.

* * *

**WINTERFELL**

In the yard, Sansa watches Brienne training an assortment of Northerners, her loyal squire, Podrick Payne, at her side. Nearby, Lord Manderly's troops are throwing their great bronze tridents at a set of wooden targets, their well-crafted armor cutting a stark contrast from the rest of the men.

One member of that House is, at the moment, profusely apologizing for his lord's recent behavior. Mycah Manderly is a dashing lad, with sharp features and thick, dark hair; brushed back like one of the great waves of White Harbor.

"I understand completely, Ser Manderly," Sansa says as the two climb the steps to the ramparts of Winterfell. "Assure your lord I have taken no offense. These are trying years for the North. I myself cannot explain all of our king's choices. I can only execute them on his behalf."

"Wisely spoken, my lady, but I fear you are mistaken on one note. I have not yet made knight. Just call me Mycah," the squire offers a charming smile. In her youth, Sansa thinks, she would have swooned for him. Now, she has other responsibilities and, as they near the front gate, she can only think of Jon, and the rest of the family she has lost. The horns of the gate break her thought. Three riders bearing the banner of the Night's Watch approach, and, behind them, a girl and a boy carefully strapped into saddle.

"Open the gates!" Sansa yells. The riders are some ways off, but what she recognizes, she wills to be true. As the doors slowly swing open, Sansa forgets her graces and runs through the gates, across the snow. Confused, Mycah and Brienne run after her. As the riders draw nearer, their faces become clear.

As Sansa and Bran Stark meet eyes for the first time in years, she falls to the ground, tears flowing down her face.

Sometime later, Sansa waits outside Bran's old room. He rests inside, tended to by Meera Reed. A million thoughts swirl through her head, a million things she must know. But as Bran coldly dismisses the girl who carried him home, and Sansa steps into the room, she realizes something is wrong.

"You've come home," she whispers, treading softly.

Bran somberly turns to peer out the window, his voice chilling and distant. Finally, he speaks.

"Have I?"

* * *

**DRAGONSTONE**

In Aegon's Garden, Jon Snow is oblivious to whatever conversation Davos is having with Lord Varys behind him. He is enraptured by the splendor of plants and flowers he could never have imagined, their splendor yet untouched by the chilling hands of winter. All his life, the tales of the Targaryens had inspired nothing but fear and hatred in his heart. But now as he walks the paths of their garden, the image of their final daughter cemented in his brain, he can only be overwhelmed by beauty.

Far above him, on the terrace, Daenerys and Tyrion watch carefully.

"Tell me, Lord Tyrion. Does Jon Snow love me?" The Hand cannot help but loose a slight laugh. A sharp glare from his queen returns his composure. "You spoke truth when you saw that Ser Jorah loved me," she reiterates. "Does Jon Snow feel the same?"

"My queen, love is a complicated thing. I'm afraid it does not just happen, like a stray bolt of lightning or a trip down the stairs."

"I saw something in his eyes when he spoke in the Hall. Few men have ever looked at me that way. Ser Jorah was one of them."

"No doubt, your grace, he was surely taken by your beauty. But that alone is not love."

"I suppose not," she sighs and turns away. "But what do you think of his petition? He will not bend the knee. He speaks of wild fantasies in the far north. But he stands with conviction, and claims the allegiance of all the North."

"I knew him, your grace. Years ago, before I met you. His father was a great man, and Jon Snow carries with him every ounce of his honor."

"His father? His father helped steal my throne."

"That is true. But surely by now you can understand why? While Jon may not yet bend the knee, a King in the North is a powerful ally to have."

"He is a bastard, yet they named him their king," Daenerys muses. "Surely that must speak well of his character."

"It does indeed, my queen."

"So be it. Find Lord Snow, tell him he may have his dragonglass. Have our men offer their assistance in the mines. And while you're there, make it known that while he is on my island, Jon Snow will dine at my table."

* * *

**KING'S LANDING**

The ringing of swords echoes as Ser Jaime Lannister spars with Dickon Tarly. The heir to Horn Hill has shared his life story with Jaime, how his father abused his elder brother, obsessed with molding an heir into his own hardened image. It is not hard for Dickon's tales to remind Jaime of life with his own late father. Dickon, however, has long since accepted his lot in life, including Randyll's continued refusal to knight him. The two fail to notice as the lord himself enters the chamber.

"You dishonor my son by softening your blows, Kingslayer," Randyll Tarly snarls and draws his own sword. "Let me show you how a Tarly trains." He rains down a quick series of brutal blows on his son, Jaime watching in horror, until Dickon's sword is knocked away. "And that, boy, is why you are not a knight. Now, the queen has summoned us. We should not keep her waiting."

The trio make their way to Qyburn's laboratories. A long disused hall in the bowels of the keep has been converted into a vast maze of bizarre experimental science. The busy little 'birds' run about, ignoring their guests, attending to countless potions, creatures and contraptions Jaime could not begin to describe. He swears he can hear muffled screams of pain and horror echoing from somewhere just out of sight.

Overseeing it all is Qyburn himself, the Hand of the Queen, waiting alongside Cersei and Tytos Brax. Bidding them to follow, Qyburn leads the group down a set of stairs into the vaults. Dickon's jaw drops as he witnesses, for the first time, the massive skeletons of the great dragons. And there, sitting before the skull of Balerian the Black Dread, lies what appears to be a massive crossbow.

"Dragons," Qyburn speaks, like a maester lecturing pupils. "The terrors of House Targaryen. On their backs, Aegon the Conqueror took the Seven Kingdoms as his own. But it has been over a century since the last dragon died, and, memory fades, their power only grows in legend."

He climbs onto his great wooden contraption, beckoning the others to draw closer. "Some smallfolk may tell you they were unkillable. But that is quite simply untrue. Many dragons have been killed throughout the annals of time, even fully grown ones. The dragons of our enemy are still young. And this is their worst nightmare. A Dornish scorpion bolt. Lord Tarly, Lord Brax, you are the greatest hunters in the Seven Kingdoms. This is my gift to you."

Lord Brax moves with sudden speed, pulling himself into the seat of the weapon. His bravado falters as he fumbles with the controls. Qyburn is forced to show him which levels to pull, as Jaime and Lord Tarly watch with disdain. At last, the great bow is unleashed with a roar and a deafening crash, a massive bolt pierces the skull of Balerian. At this, Brax begins to laugh with delirious glee, while Cersei grins with pride at a stunned Jaime.

"The only question remaining," Qyburn smiles, "is which of you will be the first man of this age to kill a dragon?"

* * *

**WINTERFELL**

Bran rests in his cart as Sansa pushes him through the Godswood. The snow has begun to fall again. Sansa can barely control her urge to demand answers from her brother, who remains frustratingly silent. Finally, calmly, she asks the most important question.

"Bran… You were gone for so long. They say you were north of the wall! What happened?"

"That's the problem, you see," he replies as they stop before the weirwood tree. "I can't yet say I know, myself."

"What kind of an answer is that?" Sansa's voice rises in frustration. She had prayed so long for her family to return, to have anyone she could truly trust. And now, this. "You have to tell me, you're my brother!"

"Am I?"

"Of course you are! Stop talking like this! You can't just disappear for years and come back, talking in riddles, like nothing happened, refusing to tell anyone what's going on!"

Bran leans forward, grasping his head as if in pain.

"Please... just.. leave me be."

Sansa fighting back tears, turns away. She had dreamed of this moment for so long, yet now it seems as if her brother's soul is still somewhere lost behind the wall, leaving only his broken body in a cart.

Bran, alone, a screaming in his brain, leans forward, pressing his skull hard against the cold, white bark of the heart tree.

He finds himself back at the Tower of Joy. He sees, once again, Ned Stark holding a baby over the body of his dying sister, promising never to give up the secret of the boy's parentage. The boy Bran knows he once loved as his brother. He turns away, seeking to see anything else. In his visions, he can run. And so he runs. He runs through great red mountains, where falcons soar overhead, only to see his father and Howland Reed secreting the baby away.

He runs on until he finds himself at the Battle of the Trident. Robert Baratheon, great stag helmet atop his head, swings a killing blow down onto Prince Rhaegar. But as Bran looks down at the dying prince, his helmet rolls off. But it is not Rhaegar underneath. It is the bloodied face of Jon Snow. Bran cries out, but there is no sound. Turning, he sees that the rest of the soldiers now stare at him, their eyes a pale blue he knows all too well. Robert removes his own helm, and underneath is the Night King. His mouth creaks open and a sound of scraping ice comes out.

"Winter is here."

Bran recoils, falling into the water. Dozens of cold, dead arms rise up, pulling him down, down into impossible depths. Finally, he breaks free. Crashing through the surface, he finds himself in a very different river, in a strange city, with a great flaming tower lighting up the sky. He remembers Old Nan's stories. This must be Oldtown. He looks about until he sees a familiar face, resting beneath a weirwood tree. A man from the Wall, Jon's friend, Samwell Tarly.

* * *

**OLDTOWN**

The setting sun falls over the Isle of Ravens, on the lazy Honeywine River. A lovely orchard surrounds the old, ivy-covered walls and towers of the Ravenry. Here the maester's ravens are trained and bred. They enjoy resting in the branches of the weirwood tree that holds root in the center of the yard. Some stories hold it is the largest of its kind left, south of the Isle of Faces.

The island is also a popular spot for recreation and reflection amongst those living at the Citadel. Thus, Sam and Alleras find themselves here on this fine evening. Alleras, clad in a loose green tunic, shoots arrows at a makeshift target he has set up. The acolyte has pristine aim, hitting true again and again, until his final arrow falls short. Smiling as always, he turns to see Sam slumped on the ground, despondent in his tattered brown robes.

"Cheer up, Tarly," Alleras plucks a golden apple from a tree and tosses it to his friend. "You didn't even know the man last week. And if he is as noble as he seems, he will fall on his blade before the Seneschal can send him away to rot."

Sam lets the apple fall to the ground. "Jon sent me here to learn how to stop the Night King," he bemoans. "How can I do that when the Seneschal won't even try to cure greyscale?"

"Archmaester Marwyn would have helped," Alleras sits, looking up at the ravens in the branches and, beyond, the earliest stars begin to appear. "He brought me here himself, I'd never have been admitted otherwise. They say he's the only archmaester left that still believes in magic."

"Where is he now?"

"Gone. They say he packed his things and sailed off to meet the Targaryen girl everyone's wringing their hands about these days. Best not to fret, Tarly," Alleras rises again and gathers his arrows. "Get a good night's sleep, a clearer head will prevail."

As Alleras walks away, Sam presses himself tight up against the white bark of the weirwood. His mind traces back to the day, so long ago, that he and Jon had taken their vows in a grove of trees just like this. How he had hoped then that the mysterious old gods would smile on him in the way the gods of his father never had. His mind drifts until, with a start, he hears a voice, like a whisper in the wind.

"Have hope, Samwell Tarly," it calls. Sam looks frantically, but there is no one there. Turning, he stares back at the face of the tree, the red sap of its carved eyes staring back. "You are here for a reason..."

"Who are you? Do you know Jon?" Sam stares at the tree for what seems like hours, but only the ravens answer him...

In his darkened cell, Ser Jorah Mormont holds his greatsword in hand, praying to the gods of the north that a miracle may still return him to his beloved. But it is said the old gods have no power in the south…

At that moment, he hears hushed footsteps. A rolling cart stops at his door. The flickering lights of a torch shine through the window, onto his face.

"I swear, Tarly, if this gets me expelled," one voice mutters as the door creaks open, revealing Sam, Alleras and a cart of operating tools. Alleras holds the torch high as Sam approaches Jorah, rag in one hand, knife in the other.

"If you'd be so kind, sir," Sam extends the rag. Jorah, bracing himself, takes it and bites down. Sam, hands tightly sealed in stolen gloves, holds the knife to the knight's cracked, grey skin. "I'm afraid this will hurt a bit."

* * *

**SUNSPEAR**

_The Black Wind _leads Yara Greyjoy's fleet into the harbor of the historic seat of House Martell. Yara herself stands at the bow, Theon Greyjoy and Ellaria Sand at her side. As they dock, they are met by a force of soldiers in the yellow and black Martell uniform. Standing at their helm, however, is someone strikingly different – a shockingly handsome knight with pure white hair, a single stripe of black parting one side. At the sight of him, Ellaria and the Sand Snakes are unnerved.

The knight nods, and the landing party reaches for weapons as the soldiers surround them. As they spread out, however, they reveal a beautiful young woman, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, in a flowing red gown.

"Yara Greyjoy! It is an honor to welcome you to Dorne, I am Princess Arianne Martell. I believe we have much to discuss." Calmed, Yara and Theon follow her, but the soldiers cut off the Sand Snakes. "Oh, and Gerald?" Arianne turns to the brooding knight. "Be a dear and escort my father's killers to the dungeons."

* * *

**CREDITS**

_Featuring Alex Högh Anderson as Mycah Manderly_


	4. Daughters of the Sand

**S07E04 Daughters of the Sand**

* * *

**Sunspear**

It has been a full day since Yara Greyjoy arrived. Since then, she and Theon have been on a whirlwind tour of the palace's elaborate and vibrant grounds, never far from their enthusiastic hostess. Princess Arianne's company has proven thoroughly unbearable for Yara. The girl is a good several years younger than her, and seems to have no end of idle prattle. She seems every bit the 'lady of the court' Yara learned to loathe growing up.

Worse yet, Theon has been completely enraptured by her beauty from the moment they arrived. On that point, Yara must concede; the princess is indeed strikingly gorgeous, with dark, smooth skin, wide curves and flowing hair. Alas, Yara was disappointed to observe, by the way she dotes upon her pet knight, Arianne is unlikely to return any interest of that sort her way.

Now, the Greyjoy siblings are left to wonder the gardens, waiting for their guide to return. Theon is staring deep into a reflecting pool, examining the intricate tile designs.

"Isn't this incredible?" he asks. "Nothing like it back north, that's for sure."

"Water belongs in the sea," Yara scoffs. "How much longer will the damned princess keep us stuck out here?"

"Not long, I hope," Theon smirks. "I certainly want to see a lot more of her."

"So I've noticed," she leans over to her brother's ear. "If you ever need advice on pleasuring a woman without your cock, I'll let you in on my own techniques." While innocently offered, Theon does not take the reminder of his emasculation well. He swiftly turns away and disappears into the vegetation. Cursing herself for lack of thought, Yara follows him into the maze.

"Theon, come back!" For a moment she loses sight of him, but the sound of punches on wood leads her to find him, head down, slamming his fists into a great palm tree. The spiked bark has left his knuckles bleeding and raw.

"Theon, stop!" He turns to look at her, tears in his eyes, before grasping her in a weak embrace. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend." She dries his face, but his eyes don't warm. "You are a Greyjoy, and you are my brother. Nothing that bastard did to you can change that!"

"Greyjoys!" Yara cringes at the sound of Arianne's voice. "Where have you gone? We should go see the menagerie next!" She rounds the corner, practically skipping, clad in thin, translucent silks that, in her supreme confidence, leave little to nothing of her body to the imagination.

"How much longer is this tour going to drag on?" Yara confronts the princess. "We need to talk about my allies."

"I would never allow such grim business ruin a beautiful day," Arianne brushes the matter off. "After tonight's feast we can discuss politics, but not a moment before. Now come, I'm sure you've never seen the likes of our beasts in the Iron Islands!" Theon quickly follows her, discreetly wiping the blood from his knuckles and putting on a cheery face. Yara glowers and, begrudgingly, trudges along behind them.

* * *

**Dragonstone**

In the dining hall, one long table stands alone in a vast and empty room. At one end sits Daenerys Targaryen, at the other, Jon Snow. Between them dine Tyrion Lannister, Missandei, Varys and Ser Davos Seaworth. Tyrion is discussing some manner of diplomacy, but Davos is primarily focused on his plate, enjoying the finest meal he has had in years. His ears clear suddenly, when he hears the dragon queen address Jon.

"So your father was Eddard Stark?"

"Yes," Jon replies, without looking up from his own meal.

"You do realize he led the rebellion that stole my throne and slaughtered my family, do you not? My brother would have had you slain on sight."

The table freezes as Jon slowly looks up. "And you do realize, Lady Targaryen, that your father murdered my grandfather and uncle? And your eldest brother raped and murdered my aunt?"

"And despite all that, my queen," Varys interjects, "still Eddard Stark refused consent when King Robert wanted you killed."

"This is none of your concern, Lord Varys." Daenerys silences him. "I wish to hear the so-called King of the North defend his father's actions. Ned Stark also sought the death of my protector, Ser Jorah Mormont."

"Ser Jorah sold men into slavery. The penalty is death. I have heard that you extracted the same punishment from the slavers in Essos." Jon cuts into his meal with the same intensity Davos saw him cut through foes in battle. "I have heard much about you. Some say you are a savior. Some say the heir to the throne. Others say you lead an army of barbarians and dragons, to rape and burn the people of Westeros."

"And what do you think I am, Jon Snow?"

"I do not know, my lady," draining his goblet, Jon stands to leave. "But my father was the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms. If his honor is an obstacle to an alliance between us, then I cannot see it as an alliance worth having."

With that, the King in the North slowly exits the hall, opening the doors for himself and closing them with an echoing clang. Davos looks cautiously back at Daenerys, her chilling face utterly unreadable.

"I beg your pardons, lords, ladies," he rises as well. "I'm afraid I will have to skip desert."

* * *

**Sunspear**

The banquet hall was loud and full of life, overflowing with men, women and children, musicians and dancers, countless servants carting about exotic food and drink. Even animals roamed the hall, colorful birds fly overhead and a great antelope carries a platform of drinks on its back. The servant leading the beast offers Theon strong-smelling wine, but he is far too overwhelmed by the spectacle to take alcohol.

That wasn't stopping the Ironborn men at his table, however. They had been drunk almost as soon the festivities began, and that was near two hours past. The endless pitchers of wine and mead had washed away any remaining pretense of respect for their broken young lord.

Theon has already made a fool of himself attempting to adapt to the low tables and floor cushions the Dornish used to dine, now his eyes scan the room, attempting to avoid the jests of his comrades. He squints across the hall to find his sister and the princess, but instead sees her grim companion staring back at him.

Ser Gerald Dayne was a man of few words, but all he needed was his glaring eyes to show the Greyjoys he did not consider them welcome here. A part of Theon wished he could spend the rest of his days here, with the gorgeous Arianne, but as long as Ser Gerald remained… Seven hells, he thinks, the man has violet eyes! What kind of a man has eyes like that? Not the sort Theon wished to be near for too long.

"What's the matter with you, boy?" Donnell Drumm slurs in his direction. "You haven't touched yer' food! Eat, before they throw you out for insulting the cook!" Drumm was a head taller than Theon and twice as broad, capable of pushing him about even before his shame. Without response, Theon begins to shovel his exotic dinner into his mouth, only to keel over in pain as the food sets his mouth on fire.

Yara watches her brother gag from her seat at the Princess' right hand.

"It seems poor Theon doesn't have the stomach for Dornish spice," Arianne laughs. "A pity." Yara shakes her head. The Theon she once knew loved new foods. Try as she might, she knows not how to help him recover his old spirit.

"Bring out the fighters!" Arianne shouts. The dancers at the center of the floor make way as space is cleared for the warriors of the attendant houses, ready to display their prowess at fighting. Even Donnell Drumm attempts to join, but the drunken sailor is quickly knocked to his feet by young Ser Daemon Sand, whose quick feet follow those of his mentor, the late Red Viper, Oberyn Martell.

Arianne cheers wildly at Daemon's victory. "He was my first, you know," she whispers to Yara. "We swore we were in love, but father of course put an end to it. There is no shame for bastards in Dorne, but a princess must still marry high. So father found me Gerald." Rolling her eyes, she gestures to the brooding knight at the far end of the table, sipping silently on a glass of bitter lemon water.

A large man, equal in size to Donnell, challenges Ser Daemon next. This time, the knight's quick feet can only take him so far, before the man's long, thick arms pull him into a crushing, victorious bear hug.

"That one, he's not from around here, is he?" Yara asks.

"No," Arianne answers. "Ser Rolland Storm, the bastard of Nightfall. A stray, he fled here after Lord Stannis' defeat. He serves me well."

"In battle and in bed, I suppose," Yara mutters.

"What, Rolland? No, of course not. He's not my type. Besides, I have a feeling he would have preferred the company of my late uncle."

Ser Rolland is declared the champion of the night's festivities, to the vocal chagrin of several of the visiting lords.

"Have some more wine!" Arianne quickly drains her own goblet and refills it, passing the pitcher to Yara, who declines.

"No more, princess, but thank you. We must talk."

"About what?"

"The reason we are here. The war."

"Oh, yes, that. I'd completely forgotten." In Arianne's eyes, it is clear she did not. "Well, of course, no matter what Ellaria told you, Dorne will not side with the dragon queen. I will not send my armies to fight for a stranger."

"My lady, I personally vouch for her character. I swear…"

"And I don't care. Funny how that works, isn't it?" Finding her glass empty again, Arianne gestures for more wine. When she turns back to Yara, her face has darkened. "Now tell, me Lady Greyjoy. Think for a moment that you were me."

Yara stares into the younger woman's eyes. She wishes she knew what that could be like. Arianne sat at the head of her kingdom, and none dare challenge her. Yara's claim to Pyke had been rejected, all because the men of the Islands saw her as a weak girl.

"Ellaria Sand murdered my father and brother," her voice falls deeper than Yara has heard it. "I would have her fed to the vultures for that. And yet many in Dorne still love her, so the solution cannot be so simple. Now tell me, queen from the sea. What must I do?"

In the dungeons, the wild sounds of the feast still penetrate, mocking Obara, Tyene, Nymeria and Ellaria Sand.

"You said the princess would not be a problem," Obara spits on the ground.

"I did not think she would be," Ellaria sighs. "I assumed she was content spending the rest of her days on the other side of Dorne, rolling in bed with Gerald Dayne."

"Well, he certainly is pretty," Tyene muses.

"Before this all started, I warned you about her," Obara will not let the matter go. "Arianne always wanted to be one of us. Uncle dressed her up in fine robes and paraded her before the lords, but she has the heart of a sand snake."

"Don't be absurd, Obara," Ellaria clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "The Princess is just a girl grasping the tassels of a tapestry. She wants nothing more in life than men, wine and dance. She…" The return of two guards cuts her off.

"Lady Ellaria!" they announce. "You're to come with us at once." Ellaria follows them to the top of the tower, where Arianne stands. Below her, the vibrant life of Sunspear glows in the night. She still wears her colorful feast gown, but seems a different girl altogether, someone unfamiliar to Ellaria.

"I want you to know that you are only alive because of my love for my cousins and your support among the guards," she says. "You murdered my family. By rights I should have your head. But at the end of the night, you will be gone, and I will be here, and your skull will still rest on your shoulders. The gods truly have no justice."

"What we did, we did for the good of Dorne," Ellaria is unnerved by Arianne's new posture, but will never relax her conviction. "Prince Duran was weak. He sat in his chair while the Lannisters marched over our faces. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. Those are our words. He did not know the meaning of them."

In a flash, Arianne's hand slaps her face. "You know nothing of my father! All you ever knew was war! But my father understood how to lead, that our people must come before our pride. The plans he laid could have brought the Lannisters to their knees, and given us the Iron Throne!"

At this, Ellaria cannot help but laugh. "And what was the grand scheme of the mighty Prince Doran?"

"I don't know," Arianne reluctantly admits. "But I will find out. I will see my father's work finished."

"If you pick up your father's work, you will wind up crippled in a chair, for all he ever did." In a flash, Arianne pulls Ellaria down over the edge of the balcony, forcing her out, halfway over the edge. Her eyes widen; she gasps for breath, staring down at the stones below.

"Tomorrow morning, you will take the troops still loyal to you and leave with the Greyjoy fleet. Dorne refused to bow to the first Targaryen invasion, yet if you wish to pave the way for the second, so be it. But if you ever step foot in Dorne again, my love for the Sand Snakes will have all run out."

As Ellaria is returned to her cell, Yara stands on a patio overlooking the sea, the party slowly winding down behind her. She is startled to hear Theon approach.

"You know, I think there's a girl or two in there who wouldn't mind spending the night with you," he suggests, but she does not turn away from her view.

"Euron's out there, Theon. I can feel it, almost as if he's watching us right now…"

"Uncle Euron is a pirate, nothing more," Theon takes her hand, but she can tell he does not truly believe it. "He's most likely off raiding some remote island. Being a king was never really his style."

Yara looks back at her brother with a half-smile. Perhaps, for tonight, she can pretend this truth, before the war begins tomorrow. Walking back into the Hall, as the guests and servants disperse, she finds a dancer girl who had made eyes at her earlier. They meander away down a side hall, leaving Theon alone with the moon and the waves and the stars.

* * *

**Riverrun**

Edmure Tully sits alone in Genna Lannister's carriage, yet it somehow feels more welcome to him without that cold woman present. He can scarcely believe that he is about to return to his family's castle. He cannot count the days he spent in the cells of The Twins, only let out to hand over Riverrun to the Freys and Lannisters. Now, his hair has grown long and distressed, and a miserable excuse for a beard distorts his face.

Coward! He accuses himself in his own thoughts. His uncle is dead, his family's seat overtaken by their enemies, all because of him. Even as he hears the guards call out their approach, he dares not look out the window, the weight of his shame too much to bear. At last, the carriage draws to a halt.

The doors open, and he reluctantly steps out into the yard, breathing in the crisp winter air. He turns in a circle, reminding himself of his home, brick by brick and stone by stone. Any nostalgia ends, however, when his eyes catch the banners of House Frey still flying from the towers. Steeling his nerves, Edmure turns around and at once his fears are relieved. His wife, Roslin, waits by the doors to the keep, their new-born babe in her arms.

He runs to her, locking into an embrace as he looks down at his son for the first time. The boy has the auburn hair and deep blue eyes of the Tullys.

"Have you named him?" he asks.

She nods. "His name is Robb, my lord."

Just for that moment, nothing else matters. Not the Lannister and Frey guards who carried him here, nor the Lords of the Riverlands assembled inside, nor the banners of House Frey above. No matter whose sigil flies from the ramparts, Edmure Tully is home.

* * *

**The River Road**

Arya has lost track of how long she has ridden. The pain from her wounds grows worse every day. When her horse stumbles upon a group of Lannister soldiers camped by the side of the road, her hand reaches for Needle, but stops, knowing she does not have the strength to fight. She fears the worst but, as she dismounts, the soldiers welcome her to their fire, offer her food and drink and share the songs of their homeland with her.

Surely these can't be Lannister men, she thinks. Unless they plan to rob me while I sleep... Panicked at the thought, she attempts to leave by horse, but as she climbs, her vision falters and she falls to the ground. The concerned soldiers gather round. The last thing she hears is the singer, Eddie, insisting she must be taken to Riverrun.

* * *

**Winterfell**

In the snow-dusted yard, Brienne of Tarth watches approvingly as her loyal squire Podrick Payne duels Mycah Manderly. Pod brings his sword back and forth, matching each blow from Mycah's trident. Pod has never looked better in combat, Brienne smiles to himself, thinking of how far the nervous, optimistic lad has come in their journeys together. At last, Mycah locks the prongs of his trident around Pod's blade. With a flick of his wrist, he hurls the sword across the yard and knocks his opponent to the ground.

"Well done, Pod," he pulls his fellow squire back up. "You're sure to make knight soon enough!"

"Are there septons here to give the vows?" Pod turns to Brienne. "I've heard that the Seven aren't worshipped here in the North."

"You don't need a septon to take the vows. But knighthood is not such a great thing anyway." For a moment, Pod had forgotten that, as a woman, Brienne is still no knight.

"Come to White Harbor," Mycah offers. "Lord Wyman holds to the Seven."

"And what gods do you pray to, Mycah?" Brienne asks.

"Only this," Mycah tosses his trident and catches it. "Reality is all a true warrior needs. Old gods or new, I've yet to see proof of either."

Bowing deeply to Brienne, Mycah motions that he wishes to fight her next. Without reaction, Brienne kicks his legs out from under him and walks away, as Pod laughs. Mycah, picking himself off the ground, joins in.

By the weirwood, Bran sits in a special wheeled chair, built hastily by Maester Wolkan upon his return. It's rough going to move it across unpaved ground, and stairs were impossible, but it returned some semblance of independence to him. Not that it gave him any pleasure.

He hears Sansa approach, knowing she has just sent Meera Reed home to petition her father. He hates himself for sending Meera away, but he hated himself far more to sit, watching her wait for him to offer some semblance of the boy she once knew, who he suspected she had grown to love. But he did not know how to be that boy anymore, if it was at all possible.

"I hope you feel good about yourself," Sansa speaks behind him, accusingly. "She didn't want me to see her crying. But I did."

"It needed to be done. I could not give her what she needs." Bran tries to leave, but Sansa will have none of it.

"What happened to you out there, Bran? You have to tell me, you're my brother!"

"You keep saying that. But I can do things now, mad things. I see through birds and walk in the past. I am not Bran Stark of Winterfell anymore. I am the Three-Eyed Raven."

"You always did love Old Nan's stories, Bran, but this... Surely you can understand my concern!"

With no answer, Bran wheels away. This time Sansa leaves him be. Alone in the godswood, she stares with hate at the empty eyes of the heart tree. If the gods have any message for her, she does not wish to hear it.

* * *

**Oldtown**

Gilly hustles through the streets of Oldtown with a load of supplies bought from the market, running after Little Sam as he darts about on the paths. She has never been among so many people before in her life, trying to keep track of such a tiny one in a crowd is a daunting task. She must not be distracted by the wonders of the city.

But as she winds a corner, the street opens up into a great plaza, and before her stands the Starry Sept, original seat of the High Septon. Her jaw drops as she takes in the great, black marble walls and arched window. She has never seen anything like it. But then comes a cry from the crowd, and she looks back in terror to see Little Sam in the path of an oncoming cart!

Gilly runs forward, dropping her freshly bought items, but is too far away. At the last second, the boy is whisked up into the air. A great knight in armor polished to a blinding sheen returns her son to her, riding atop his horse.

This man is even more impressive than the sept, and she trips over herself attempting to bow in the way she has seen others do. "Thank you, my… my lord…"

"I'm am no lord, kind lady," the knight's voice is brilliant as his armor, his dark skin sparkles in the sun. "Ser Gunthor Hightower, at your service."

"H…h…Hightower?" Gilly stammers, pointing at the blazing watchtower.

"One and the same," Gunthor beckons to two other knights who had been on patrol with him. "This woman's produce has been spoiled. We must return her to the palace and see that they are replaced. And perhaps," looking down at Little Sam, "get this brave little knight a bath."

* * *

**Sunspear**

In the harbor, Yara watches with a concerned eye as Dornish troops board her fleet's ships. Donnell Drumm has already gotten into two fights, this morning alone. She crosses to Ellaria, who stands at a distance, while the Princess Arianne bids farewell to the Sand Snakes.

"This is not the army we promised our queen," Yara mutters.

"These are three hundred of the finest soldiers in Dorne. Each is worth a dozen Lannister men." Ellaria turns and boards the ship. Yara continues on to Arianne.

"Stay safe," she tells her cousins. "And if you find this girl unworthy of your talent, you will always be welcome at Sunspear."

"Do you still have my gift?" Nymeria asks.

"Of course," Arianne shifts her shoe, revealing a dagger hidden in her sole. As the Snakes cross the boarding ramp, young Daemon Sand follows. Arianne has entrusted him as her eyes and ears in the Targaryen army. Now, only Yara is left. "You know, I could use a fleet. Drop off your cargo and return. I swear you will find more respect here than the Iron Islands."

Yara sighs, for she knows it is true. She cannot help but wish to stay in Dorne, where her womanhood and preferences in bed would hold no shame. Yet leave she must.

"I have sworn to Daenerys Targaryen. I must serve at her command. But I hope we meet again, and not on the battlefield."

"I hope that as well, Lady Greyjoy," she leans in close to Yara's ear. "And you would do well to remind your queen of the last invader to ride a dragon into Dorne. We shot that dragon out of the sky, and took its rider with it."

* * *

**Dragonstone**

In the war room, Davos finds himself thinking back to his time in service to Stannis Baratheon. Those are not pleasant thoughts. He shakes them away, instead examining the sigils of newly sworn houses hanging from the walls - the swordfish of Bar Emmon, seahorse of Velaryon, rose of Martell, crab of Celtigar, grapes of Redwyne and the newly crafted snake and spear of Ellaria Sand.

Daenerys and Jon pass glances at each other, each trying to discern the other's thoughts. Davos instead turns to Lord Tyrion, who is intently studying the great table.

"You're Ser Davos Seaworth, right?" Tyrion asks. "You served Lord Stannis at the Blackwater."

"Yes. Your strategy served you well that night, my lord. I lost my son in that battle." The Hand does not know how to respond. "But such is war. Strange how it brings together old foes and new allies. Now, tell me, Lord of Lannister, how do you plan on taking the Rock?"

Tyrion smiles as he lays out the strategy he has passed on to Grey Worm, based in his own understanding of his home's secret passages. Sure enough, the Unsullied are, at that very moment, storming the legendary fortress. But as they raise the Targaryen flag upon its ramparts, Grey Worm realizes something is horribly wrong. The Lannister army is missing.

* * *

**The Roseroad**

On the winding road through the Reach, the vast Lannister army marches swiftly, with Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater leading them. Ahead, the massed banners summoned by the new Warden of the South, Randyll Tarly, await to join them. Together, they make up the largest army that Bronn has ever seen.

"Just what are you planning to do with all these cunts?" he asks.

"You ever been to Highgarden, Bronn?"

"Never cared to. All flowers and shit, was never my game."

"Well, Bronn, you, me and our thousands of friends here are about to pay them a little visit." Jaime flashes his winning Lannister smile and spurs his horse onward, to conquest.

* * *

**CREDITS**

_Special Guest Stars: Geraldine Viswanathan as Arianne Martell, David Castañeda as Ser Gerald Dayne_


	5. The Dragon and the Wolf

**S07E05 The Dragon and the Wolf**

* * *

**Dragonstone**

Missandei walks through the great library of Dragonstone, examining the books, maps and artifacts of kings long dead. Tyrion follows close behind.

"Can you read Common text, as well as speak it?" he asks.

"Some. Not as well as I wish." Here in the library's sea of books, Missandei finds herself drowning in the need for knowledge.

"I can help," Tyrion offers. "Once our queen has her throne, she will need a Grand Maester. Of course, the Citadel would never admit a woman, but when Daenerys rules, I believe a great deal will be changing. For now, I suppose, you're stuck with me."

"You are no poor teacher, my lord," Missandei smiles as the little man begins to gather books from the shelves. As he works, she drifts to a window, thinking of her lover, on the other side of a vast land.

"Have any ravens returned today?"

"I'm afraid not. I worry for The Reach. My sister seems to have declared a new Warden of the South. Many have flocked to him. He tells them we are a great horde of murderers, rapists and barbarians."

"Like what the North King said at dinner?" she muses.

"Yes. It seems that we've made quite the first impression amongst the more… insular lords."

"Do you think we made the right decision?" Missandei looks straight to Tyrion's eyes, hoping for reassurance. Since the day of the war counsel, she has lain awake at night, pondering that question.

"Only time will tell, I'm afraid," Tyrion sighs, but his eyes betray his own doubts. "In this game, the slightest error can hold the gravest of consequences…"

* * *

**Highgarden**

In the winding hedge maze surrounding Highgarden, a wooden shack hosts the workshop of the master gardener. Here the old man stands, hands worn from decades of planting, washing freshly picked pomegranates - the favorite of the Lady Olenna Tyrell. Ignoring cries of chaos from the castle walls, he calmly walks the maze, carrying the fruit up, up into the castle itself and to the Lord's Hall, where Olenna bids farewell to her evacuating family.

"My aunt, please, come with us," Lord Paxter Redwyne, a balding man barely taller than Olenna, begs.

"I am tired of running, Paxter." Olenna sighs. "And I have a final message I must pass on to the Lannisters."

"Then we will return to rescue you. You must survive until then!"

"What will you do, sail your fleet across the fields?" She shakes her head. "No. This is where my story ends."

Paxter grasps his aunt's hands, saying farewell with their House words - "Bound Tighter Than Vines."

Olenna repeats the vow and turns away, letting Paxter quietly exit. The wide window of the Lord's Hall gives a clear look at the approaching forces. She can just now begin to make out the banners. The Tyrells had always kept their share of enemies in The Reach, but they had never had the nerve to unite against them. Until now. Only her nephew, the Shield Islands, House Rowan and Oldtown had not answered Randyll Tarly's call. The navy? Of little use. The Rowan army? Devastated by the war. House Hightower? They had not marched in a hundred years. Even if Lord Leyton stirred from his tower, there was no time left.

The gardener approaches with her pomegranates in a gilded bowl.

"Thank you Garth," she peels them with a knife. "Now go, and hide yourself away until the fighting is done, or else who shall prepare the gardens for winter?" As the loyal servant turns to go, she sees one of the nobles has remained – Lady Arwyn Oakheart.

"I believe those are your banners I see out there with the lions, foxes and huntsmen. I must admit, I never expected much of you, Arwyn, but marching for Randyll Tarly?"

"Your family has held false claim to the Reach for too long," Lady Oakheart sneers. "Randyll is... difficult, but he is the means we were given to be rid of you at last."

"Ha! Well, don't get too close to the man, he's liable to give you fleas," Olenna wonders off, fruit in hand. "When Ser Jaime gets here, tell him I'll be in my quarters."

Soon enough, Oakheart men raise the gates of Highgarden. Soldiers pour into the hedge maze, led by Jaime Lannister, Bronn, and Dickon Tarly. They make short work of the Tyrell guardsmen foolish enough to resist.

Jaime reaches the Lord's Hall to find Lady Oakheart waiting. She silently leads him to Olenna's chambers and shows him in.

Olenna waits, dressed in mourning clothes. Peaceful.

"So what is to become of me?" she asks.

"Cersei had all manner of brutal, inspired schemes," Jaime removes a small vial from a pouch on his belt. "I felt you deserved better. Cruel japes do not deserve a cruel death."

"Oh, good," she snatches the vial from his hand and dumps the entirety into her glass of wine. "It won't be painful, then?"

"No," he answers, and watches as she quickly drains the glass. But as she places it back down on the table, her eyes have changed.

"Excellent. I would have hated to die like your eldest boy, clawing at my throat like that, face all purple. Hideous way to go," Jaime turns away at the memory, but Olenna leans forward and turns his face back to hers. "You know, it was a terrible chore to get my hands on that particular poison. The Strangler, they called it. But anything is possible, for the right price."

Jaime pushes his chair away from the table, the breath sucked out of his lungs.

"To think, all this time, and you never figured it out? Why if you had, your father would still be alive! And Myrcella and Tommen both, I suppose. And your brother would not be waiting on your doorstep with three dragons."

Olenna slumps back in her chair as the poison takes hold. Her final words are but a whisper, but carry all the intensity of the grave.

"Tell Cersei. I want her to know it was me."

* * *

**Dragonstone**

In the mines, deep within the island, Davos holds a torch to light his way, as an over-excited northerner drags him down to the furthest reach of their exploration. There, by the flickering light, a long forgotten cave lies uncovered. Davos' jaw drops as he looks around in a circle at crude paintings depicting things he had only heard whispered of by two people in his long life – His old nursemaid and Jon Snow.

Above ground, Jon waits in attendance as Daenerys hears a report from her Hand. A meeting has been arranged with the houses that have pledged to her, but the list is less than satisfactory.

"Is that all?" she asks, clearly annoyed.

"I'm afraid so, my queen," Tyrion shakes his head. "But in time, once we have begun to claim victories, I believe…"

"What of House Connington? I did not hear their name. They were always loyal to my family."

"Too loyal for Robert's taking, I'm afraid. After the rebellion, he stripped Griffin's Roost of all but a fraction of their lands. Lord Jon Connington has been missing ever since. Some say he joined the Golden Company, others say he drank himself to death. Regardless, we cannot expect any aid from him."

"That is unfortunate," Daenerys sighs. "He was dear to my brother Rhaegar…" Jon locks eyes with her at the mention of that hated name. This island and its queen may be beautiful, but he can never forget what the prince did to his aunt.

"However," Tyrion clears his throat, "a new ally has appeared. Missandei received a raven from Oldtown today."

"It bears word from the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven," Missandei reads. "He beseeches you to remember the long alliance between House Targaryen and the Faith. He says 'A sinner and apostate sits upon your family's throne, standing accused of destroying the Great Sept of Baelor. As the true queen, the Faith pledges to fully back your claim, so long as you ensure the restoration of true religion in the realm'".

"The great Sept may be gone, but the Seven still guide the kingdoms," Tyrion advises.

"Not the North," Jon blurts out. Tyrion glares at him.

"Leave him be," Daenerys says. "I know little of my ancestors' faith. How should I proceed in this matter?"

"The support of the Faith was vital to Aegon's conquest," Tyrion begins to explain, but is interrupted, as the doors to the Hall swing open. Davos enters.

"My apologies, your graces," he bows. "But the men have made a discovery in the mines. Something I believe you both will want to see."

In the cave deep beneath the earth, Davos' torch once again lights the walls as Daenerys, Jon, Tyrion and Missandei all enter. Jon's eyes flick from wall to wall. He has seen markings like this before, but never on this scale. The paintings of the First Men, tales of hunters and wars. Small green men that must be the Children of the Forest. And then he sees it… Crude though the drawings may be, the faces of the white walkers stare back at him from the stone.

He watches as Daenerys walks to them, running her hand over their faces - eyes heartless and cold.

"Do you believe me now, my lady?" he asks.

"These paintings must be millennium old," she laughs. But as she turns back to Jon, his eyes shine as only someone who has seen the face of true fear can. In that moment she knows; whatever Jon Snow has come here to fight, it is all too real.

* * *

**King's Landing**

In the small counsel chambers, matters have grown disruptive. Cersei clutches her skull, trying to hide her screaming internal agitation as the petty lords go on and on.

"Damion Lannister has bid every noble house in the Westerlands to bend the knee," Ser Steffon Swyft gripes. "My fool father would have done so already if it wasn't for me! What are we supposed to do while the Lannister armies galivant about The Reach?"

"Lord Paxter Redwyne escaped the taking of Highgarden and is readying his fleet for war," young Arthur Waters reports. "And while they have not yet chosen a side, the Hightower fleet grows by the day."

"Enough!" Cersei shouts at last. The sudden silence is powerfully soothing. "We have Highgarden. The Tyrell fortune is ours. That is all that matters."

She rises to leave, only to hear shouts from just beyond the chamber doors. They fling open as an stout woman barrels past the guards, a bag in hand. Cersei is shocked to recognize her aunt, Genna.

"Good day, my queen," the old woman gruffly throws the bag on the table. Cersei is speechless, she cannot comprehend how to respond to the intrusion. Ser Wylis, however, reaches inside the bag and pulls out the hideous death mask of a skinned human face. With a gasp, the fat knight faints, toppling out of his chair.

Sometime later, Cersei has composed herself. In Qyburn's laboratory, she sternly approaches her aunt, leaned over The Hand's shoulder as he examines the masks.

"Aunt Genna, would you mind letting us in on just why you chose to so… gracefully bring us this adorable little present? And on such short notice?"

"Those are the masks of a Faceless Man, Cersei," Genna holds one to her face. The queen is disgusted, but will not let it show. "I found them in a room supposedly rented by Black Walder Frey. Black Walder's dead, with the rest of his House, my husband and sons included."

"Thus it stands to reason," Qyburn asserts, "that the owner of these masks is the same who massacred House Frey."

"The North does not have the funds to hire a Faceless Man, much less have one kill an entire house," Cersei dismisses the notion.

"Perhaps the Iron Bank?" Qyburn suggests. "They grow impatient to collect our debts."

"They would not dare," Cersei scoffs.

"They would," Qyburn is deathly serious.

"Once my brother returns from Highgarden, our debts will be paid in full."

"Regardless of who paid the killer, it is high time you bring the North under control." Genna insists. "You have named new wardens in the East, West and South. Harlan Dondarrion, Tytos Brax and Randyll Tarly were all wise choices. I would advise following suit by naming Wyman Manderly the Warden of the North. That will put an end to the Starks' foolishness once and for all. Now, as for the Martell girl…"

"Aunt Genna," Cersei cuts her off. "I assure you, my Hand and I have matters fully under control. Ser Arys and Ser Osmund will escort the Princess Arianne here. Gerald Dayne assures us she will readily pledge loyalty, particularly when plied by our most dashing knights."

"Which only leaves one small problem on the table," Genna scowls, not used to being silenced. "Our own home."

* * *

**Castlery Rock**

On the ramparts of the great Lannister fortress, Grey Worm walks alongside a man with a raven on his arm. Aged beyond his years, he is a far cry from the lions of men who made his name renowned. Damion Lannister has never been a lion. But now, he thinks, a dragon flies behind him.

"I do not understand," Grey Worm is saying. "We sacked your home. Your son lies dead. And now you call us friend? You send your black birds to bring help?"

"Yes, you killed my son, my goodson as well. But war is many things, most of all complicated. Grey Worm, is it? Fascinating name. See, I was charged with protection of this castle and its lands. But now you control the castle. And as I do not care to see the rest of my family, nor the men of Lannisport, join my son in death, this is how I defend them. By bending the knee."

"To the true queen?" Grey Worm in part asks, in part commands.

"Yes." With a gesture, Damion bids the raven take flight, carrying forth yet another petition for fealty from a western house. "To the true queen."

* * *

**Dragonstone**

Jon Snow is a puzzle, Daenerys thinks. A pretty puzzle, a puzzle with the might of The North behind him, but a puzzle she has yet to unlock. They met on the wrong foot, it was a mistake to challenge his father's honor. She knows full well the crimes of her own father. But watching this northern boy's wonder during his stay here has shown a way she might sway his heart completely.

Now, she leads Jon down a long path, occasionally glancing back to ensure he still follows. She cannot say she believes his tales of old magic raising the dead, but she recognizes in his eyes her own conviction – to do the right thing, no matter the cost. So now, as they reach the top of the hill, she reveals the nest of Dragonstone, populated for the first time in centuries with dragons. He says the dead burn. And nothing burns hotter than dragonfire.

She watches as Jon takes a step forward, eyes wide. But as Rhaegal rises and stomps towards them, he does not shrink in fear. The green dragon's head draws inches away from Jon. As the young king of the north reaches out his hand delicately to stroke the scales, Daenerys smiles. Softly, she kisses him on the cheek, but he barely notices.

"He likes you," she whispers. And then smiles. She knows now. Jon Snow will follow her.

* * *

**Winterfell**

Lord Petyr Baelish finds Bran Stark alone in his chambers, sitting on his bed, staring blankly at a wall. He enters with caution.

"Lord Stark, if I may intrude, I have some questions about the current state of affairs. With your brother, pardon, half-brother gone…"

"I am not a lord, Littlefinger," Bran says, without emotion. "I have no place in your schemes. And do not run off to my sister. She does not wish to be disturbed."

"How do you know…"

"I said, she does not wish to be disturbed."

Thoroughly unnerved, Baelish backs out of the room, deep in thought. Meanwhile, Sansa, truly enough, does not wish to be disturbed. Her clothes discarded on the snowy ground, she reclines in the hot springs of the godswood when, from the brush, Mycah Manderly stumbles.

"Beg pardon, my lady," he quickly averts his eyes.

"Don't be absurd, Mycah, there's no shame here. What do you have to say?"

"My Lord Wyman has questions regarding the…"

"No, this won't do," Sansa shakes her head. "Get in." She gestures to the pool.

"In there? I'll freeze!"

"No, you won't. You'll be warmer than you are out there." Nervously, Mycah disrobes and stands shivering, naked in the cold as Sansa watches. "Oh, for the gods' sake, you will freeze if you stand out there like that! Get in!"

Mycah attempts to step into the pool, but slips and collapses into a splash. Horrified by his gaffe, he begins to apologize, but as the Lady of Winterfell laughs, he sees this is not necessary. Instead, he reports, relating his lord's concerns of men, of supplies, of housing. Sansa listens intently, answering with all the grace she learned when she thought she would be queen.

The report ends, and they sit in silence. She stares for a long time at this daring boy, part northern and part southern, the steam rising off him into the cold winter air. Suddenly, he leans in, his lips stretching out towards her cheek. In that moment, she no longer sees Mycah, but Joffrey, Ramsay, Littlefinger… She recoils.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean.." Mycah turns away.

"Do the men of White Harbor always move so quickly?"

"Well... We Persist," he offers his house words, embarrassed to say anything else.

"See you do not persist in this," Sansa orders sternly. She suddenly feels very cold. "Fetch my clothes and be on your way. I wish to return inside."

* * *

**The Whispers **

The winds over the Narrow Sea howl, making torchlight dance over the ruined walls and towers of the long abandoned castle, its skeleton now covered by poisonous red ivy.

Tyrion stands at the center of what once must have been a great hall, his queen by his side. It is said the Whispers are haunted by a thousand ghosts, but his own fears are far more tangible than the specters of the past.

"My queen, I still do not believe you should have come. We do not know these men, any one of them could betray us."

"Then they will burn," Daenerys replies. At this, the heavy, warm breath of a dragon nearly blows the Hand over. Drogon is invisible in the black night, his eyes glowing in the darkness to keep watch over the proceedings.

Tyrion looks about at the attendants thus far. This is what we have to retake the Iron Throne? The island lords have flocked back to their Targaryen masters, but their power is not what it once was. The houses of Crackclaw Point, meanwhile, cannot help but remind him of the wild mountain tribes he rallied so long ago in the Vale, a ragtag gang of rustic warriors. They cluster in the shadow beneath the banners of their sworn lords, House Brune, with their brown bear claw.

And then there is Jon Snow. He has grown far from the boy Tyrion left on the Wall. Now he stares enamored, unable to take his eyes from Daenerys and her dragons.

"Is this everyone?" Varys asks skeptically.

"You promised more, Lord Tyrion," Daenerys says.

"And they will come, I assure you," Tyrion can only hope that this is true. Suddenly, the sound of softly approaching feet and hushed voices relieves him. Fresh lights appear through the ruins and a great new host appears, doubling those already arrived. At the head, beneath a great banner of dueling suns and moons, a tall slender man in deep blue robes removes a yellow scarf - Lord Selwyn Tarth.

A grim knight, clad in a ragged white cloak, declares his lord's arrival. The Island of Tarth has been given dominion over Storm's End. Lord Selwyn, the Evenstar, has publicly pledged to call his banners from Cape Wrath and take up arms against the Dragon Queen. In truth, he promises, the forces massed are prepared to march at Daenerys' command.

Seeing her moment has come, Daenerys steps into the center of the light.

"My lords, knights, friends all," she declares. "Thank you for coming here tonight. When the maesters write their histories of the days to come, you will be remembered well. For you have not forgotten your true loyalty. Together we shall reclaim the Iron Throne. And all who defy us will burn!"

One by one, the lords kneel, extending their wrapped sigils as a token of their pledge. At last, Daenerys comes to Jon. He holds the direwolf banner in hand, but still stands tall, meeting the queen eye to eye.

"I made a vow to my people," he says. "I cannot bend the knee." Daenerys frowns. Drogon's watchful eyes turn towards them. But Jon continues. "Instead, I bid you come north. Once the Night King is defeated, then we shall be indebted to you."

With the faintest of smiles, Daenerys concedes. She grasps the Stark banner and, for a moment, her hands touch Jon's. They burn, like a fire inside.

* * *

**The Black Wind**

Theon stands at the bow of the ship as it rocks heavily on the ocean, eyes entranced by a queer shadow on the horizon. The sea seems calm, yet suddenly a stray lightning bolt thunders in the distance. Theon jumps.

"Scared of a little thunder, now, boy?" Donnell Drumm laughs behind him. "And I thought your sorry state couldn't get any sadder."

"Have you ever seen a fog like that?" Theon asks, ignoring the insult.

"Can't say I have," Donnell peers out at the darkness. "Black as ink. Nothing the _Wind_ can't handle, though, I tell ye that."

"I don't like it," Theon stares deeper still. For a moment, he thinks he sees something dark and terrible move within the shadow, but a fat, cold drop of rain lands in his eye. Blinking, the shape is gone.

"Best tie things down 'fore the storm hits," Donnell gives him a crushing side-hug. "Don't you worry about a thing, boy. If the snarks and the grumkins come for us, you can hide behind me."

Below, Yara reclines in the captain's quarters alongside the Sand Snakes. As Obara mocks Tyene, who seems on the verge of being sick, Yara discusses the coming war with Ellaria.

"I fear the queen will not be pleased when we return," she murmurs.

"If we return," Tyene groans as the ship heaves again.

"A little storm like this is nothing to the Ironborn," Yara laughs. "I've sailed far worse."

"Regardless, it is better that we return to her side," Ellaria says. "I do not trust the Imp. He is soft, with no stomach for true war. If we are to win, she needs us, together." With a knowing look, Ellaria slides her hand along Yara's thigh, smiling.

Back on deck, the thick black fog washes over the edge of the ship as rain pours down. Young Ser Daemon Sand, in freshly forged red armor, gags.

"Is this normal?" He asks Theon.

"No... No it's not." This time, Theon swears, there are surely shapes approaching in the darkness. "Donnell! Come fore!"

Donnell grumbles to himself as he stomps back to the bow. Then he sees the movement in the darkness. The three peer out, trying to wave the sticky, tar like gas away. Suddenly, a screeching whistle pierces their ear and a ball of fire comes flying out of the black, slamming into the ship beside them.

"Get the captain, boy!" Donnell yells at Ser Daemon, who runs below deck. "We're under attack!" The crew rallies for battle as the sky lights up with burning stars crashing down on the fleet. The sturdy sailor shares Theon's look of terror as the massive tri-sailed silhouette of _The Silence _looms before them.

"Euron..." Theon stammers.

"How the hell did he find us?" Any answer is silenced by the scream of another fireball streaking straight towards them.

Moments later, Obara leaps up the steps, emerging into what looks to her like the seven hells come on earth. The fleet is ablaze, their own ship missing a chunk of its hull. The fire illuminates the massive vessel before them, a writhing monstrosity of rope and sails, surging like a ravenous beast with its mouth - a vast steel boarding ram - crashing down onto the bow. Already atop the ram, somehow screaming a deluded wail above all the noise of battle, is the most terrifying man she has ever seen.

Euron Greyjoy, clad in a black coat, his eyes glistening with the reflections of the flames, a curved cutlass in each hand, leaps onto the burning deck below him. Ironborn soldiers are close behind.

"Stay with me!" Yara yells. "You have no idea what he's capable of!" With Tyene below guarding her mother, Obara, Nymeria and Ser Daemon follow the captain and her men as they charge the boarding party. Euron has already cut down multiple foes, laughing all the way, and now looms over Theon. The prince cowers on the deck. A blow from Daemon knocks him back and Yara helps her brother to his feet.

"Where's Donnell?" she yells.

"He went overboard!"

Furious that Daemon got the first blow, Obara thrusts at Euron with her spear. He dodges with ease. The pirate king is surrounded, but in motion he fights with the strength of the Mountain and the speed of the Red Viper. Nymeria's whip wraps around his neck, taking him to the ground. As Obara lunges again, however, he rolls to the side, slashing through Daemon's unguarded ankle with one blade. When the young knight falls, writhing in pain, Euron buries the second blade in his neck.

Regaining his footing, Euron stands against Yara and the two Sand Snakes. Theon has disappeared in the chaos. A flurry of blades erupt, each warrior dodging and deflecting as quickly as they strike. The heavy rain rolls down Obara's face, filling her eyes and blurring her vision. She realizes, too late, that she stands on the edge of the destroyed hull. In the time it takes to blink her eyes clear, Euron's foot connects with her chest and she is flying through air, the waves rushing up to consume her.

The shock freezes Nymeria for but a moment, but it is a moment too long. Euron plunges his remaining blade into her stomach and, cackling, hoists her into the air, as if a blood sacrifice to a dark and horrid god. As the girl's body drops to the ground, Yara stares at her uncle through the carnage, soaked and bloodied. The battle is over. The rain fades, the fog dissipates. The devastation of her fleet is revealed. It is just the two of them now.

"It looks like young Theon's run away," Euron smirks. He is now unarmed. Yara moves cautiously towards him, blade first. "I always took him for a coward, just like my brother. You know the last thing I told him, before I threw him from the bridge?"

Yara lunges, but Euron sidesteps her, wrapping his hands around her own. They turn and twist, wrestling with the same sword, teetering on the edge of the vast, watery abyss. They shove back and forth, yelling through gritted teeth, neither willing to yield until Euron forces his niece back onto the shattered bow, a jagged splinter piercing her side. She gasps in pain and falls in defeat.

Staring upwards, the stars are obscured by her uncle's leering face.

"I am the storm, girl. The storm that has come, at last, for all of Westeros. And none can stand against it."

Now far from the slowly sinking ship, desperately fighting against the waves, Obara kicks and thrashes with all her might. She surges above the water only to be sucked below again. She must get back, she tells herself, but to no avail. Up and down and up and down, she rises and falls, the salty bile filling her lungs, but the burning flagship draws no closer. Despairing, she allows herself to sink between the surface, mind fading to black, never feeling the strong hand pulling her away.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

_Introducing Jared Harris as Ser Damion Lannister - The Lannister lineage is one of the largest of the Great Houses, yet so far we've only really seen Tywin's line. Which is, of course, the way Tywin would like it. Damion may be the forgotten Lannister, but he has deep ties in the West, allies that Dany will certainly need after this episode. Jared Harris is a brilliant, criminally underrated British actor, the perfect fit for this new piece of the puzzle._

_Looking at this episode as a whole, I realize the "sweeping of the board" was unpopular in the show, but I feel it was a necessary event to force Dany to fight for herself. I hope that the presentation here proves more satisfying than the version we got on screen. I especially tried to establish the politics of The Reach more clearly. With no Tyrell heirs left, every House with a claim to Highgarden is out for blood at Randyll's call._

_As always, all feedback is greatly appreciated, what you liked, what you didn't... This is a beast of a story to manage, and all comments I get are hugely helpful to perfecting the outline. Thanks for reading!_


	6. The Queen's Justice

**S07E06 The Queen's Justice**

* * *

**Riverrun**

In the maester's chambers, Arya Stark lies in a deep slumber. Thus, she is spared the sound of loud bickering from beyond the doors. Lords Jonos Bracken and Tytos Blackwood are once again at each other's throats. The two rival lords yell over each other, with Tytos' pet raven adding to the cacophony.

"We swore to serve the Starks!" Blackwood yells.

"To the Starks!" his raven echoes.

"And where did that get us? Our lands razed, armies slaughtered for what?"

The argument is silenced as Edmure Tully appears, awoken from a deep and pleasant slumber.

"Are you sure it's her?" he asks, yawning.

"I swear it," Lord Blackwood opens the doors. "I know the face of a Stark."

"Know the face!" the bird shrieks.

Edmure looks down at the bed. Arya was just a small girl when he last saw her. Yet he knows the truth the moment his eyes see it. "How is she?"

"Her wounds were some of the worst I've seen, but I believe she is out of the shadow now," Maester Vyman assures him. "The girl will live, but she needs much rest."

"You must alert the queen, my Lord," Bracken speaks.

"Never!" Blackwood shouts back, his words ringing Edmure's ears. "Cersei will surely have her killed!"

"Killed! Killed!" Bracken swats at the raven, sending it flying away.

"Then so be it! It is our duty, or do you wish to see our homes burned yet again?"

"Enough, enough," Edmure tries to calm the feuding lords. "Can we not decide this in the morning? Such talk is tiresome, and I am already weary." He tries to stumble back to bed, trying not to return to thoughts of his long lost sister, mother to the girl on the bed.

"My lord, if you do not alert the queen tonight, I will," Bracken vows.

Sighing, Edmure turns back to the maester. "Bring me my seal," he commands, and finds a seat to write, ignorant of the furious eyes of Tytos Blackwood burning the back of his skull.

* * *

**Somewhere in the Riverlands**

On the edge of the road, there is a rustling in the bushes. A tall, thin shadow limps out of the forest. His body burned and deeply scarred, the Starved Man lives nonetheless. It had been no small work escaping the wolves through the fire and the storm, and had taken uncounted days to recover just enough to stand. But a man is nothing if not convicted. Looking up to the stars, he asserts his location before limping away down the road. He will not fail the Many-Faced God again.

* * *

**At Sea**

Expelling bitter salt water from her lungs, Obara Sand coughs, awaking to the rays of morning sun. She is on a boat, but cannot remember how she got there. She can hear Donnell Drumm berating Theon Greyjoy, accusing him of cowardice. Slowly, the nightmare of the ambush comes back to her.

Stumbling to her feet, Obara limps to the edge of the boat and looks out at the desolate sea before them, the early morning light illuminating the wreckage of their fleet. None but the ship she is standing on remains. Her family is gone. She leans further out, hanging out over the dark blue expanse, staring down towards the watery grave. She should be with them, she thinks.

"Stop her!" someone yells. Theon and Donnell pull her back from the ledge just before she can jump, dragging her away as she fights.

"Let me go! Let me go! Let me…" as her strength fades again, Obara's eyes turn up to the sun. As the darkness fades back in and she lies shaking on the deck, all she can see are the fading faces of all those she loved, burning away into the sun.

* * *

**Dragonstone**

"I do not like this one bit," Tyrion mutters to himself as he walks through the halls of the fortress. He is flanked by two men – Gold Finch, commander of the remaining Unsullied on the island, and Ser Argilac Horpe, a grim knight sworn to Lord Selwyn Tarth, now bound to Daenerys as a "gift" from his lord.

Tyrion fancies Gold Finch to be the most humorous of the Unsullied he has met, based on the fact that on at least one, possibly two, occasions, Tyrion has seen him crack a smile. He could not say the same of Ser Argilac. He knows the reputation of the man's name, a house of landed knights from the Marches, known for raising prolific killers and for dressing in tattered white robes that gave them the look of grim specters of death. Many a lord and king had held a Horpe knight as bodyguard or headsman.

"Have any birds come today?" he asks Missandei, finding her on a veranda, studying her books.

"None today, Lord Hand," she shakes her head, without looking up.

"The Greyjoy fleet should have been back days ago," Tyrion murmurs, to no one in particular.

"There! On the horizon!" Gold Finch points to a great fleet of black ships entering the bay. Removing a Myrish far-eye from his pocket, Tyrion peers across the water, as a sense of dread sinks in.

"No… That is not Yara's fleet."

* * *

**King's Landing**

The streets of the city roar to life as the smallfolk clamor to see the parade disembarking this great fleet of ships, the likes of which they have never seen. Leading the procession, bound by rope leashes, Ellaria Sand and her daughter Tyene struggle to maintain their footing. Their clothes torn open, the crowds leer and throw rotten fruit.

"Behold, the Dornish witches who murdered your princess!" yells the man holding the ropes, astride a massive black, long-haired horse. Euron Greyjoy rides high in his saddle, his swagger and confidence enrapturing the crowd, who hang on his every word.

"See the shame of the enemies of the Realm!" With each proclamation, their hate grows greater. It seems a wonder the Sand Snakes survive to the steps of the Red Keep.

In the throne room, Queen Cersei lays in wait. Her aunt Genna has sat herself amongst the small counsel, she notices. Despite their long separation, the old woman's presence is still a comforting one. The great doors creak open but a crack, and a small fool scuttles in.

"Lords, ladies, my queen," he bows. "It is my honor to present to you the legend of the known world, the scourge of the seas, the man who has robbed the hosts of heaven and hell alike. From the Shivering Sea to the Green Hell of Sothoryos, even to the Shadowlands his name is feared. I give you… Euron Greyjoy!"

A roaring cheer erupts from beyond the hall as the doors swing wide upon and Euron makes his grand entrance, still atop his horse, his men applauding his entrance. He rides to the very foot of the throne, until the Queensguard block his way.

"Leave him be," Cersei bids them stand down. She examines the eccentric display before her. The roughhewn Ironborn and their leader's patchwork attire are a far cry from the polished soldiers she has known before. But there is a wild look in this man's eyes that captivates her.

"Men have called you the most beautiful woman in the world," Euron leaps down from his horse. "They have not done you justice."

"I am flattered. But you did not come here to flatter me, did you, Euron Greyjoy?"

"No, my queen," he beckons to his men, who produce Ellaria and Tyene, battered and bruised, and throw them down on the steps of the throne. "I found some strays lost at sea. Heard you'd been looking for 'em…"

Tyene glares defiantly as Cersei smiles, but Ellaria does not lift her eyes from the ground. The queen signals Ser Baelon Swann to take them away.

"You certainly know how to give good gifts, Lord Greyjoy."

"Indeed, that is one of my… many qualities," Euron prowls closer to the throne. "I hear there are some vacant spaces in your court, for a great admiral like myself." He bends down to whisper in her ear. "And a great lover. Like myself."

Standing, Cersei addresses the assembly, as Euron steps back into the place where Ser Jaime Lannister had stood less than a fortnight before.

"As of this moment, Euron Greyjoy will serve his queen as Master of Ships on the Small Counsel," Cersei smiles at the shocked murmurs from the counsel table. "With the Iron Fleet at our command, our enemies will soon be crushed beneath our feet. Starting with all Tyrell loyalists, the traitors to the North and then… the Targaryen invader."

The crowd erupts into cheers as Euron grins mockingly at the counsel table. Most look away but Genna Lannister locks eyes with him. This will not do, she thinks. This will not do at all.

* * *

**Winterfell**

Sansa sits alone in the Great Hall. This chair does not belong to me, she thinks. It was my father's. my brother's and now Jon's. Two dead and the other missing. What if he never comes back? She can remember how horribly she used to treat him, now she sits terrified of never seeing him again. She has played this part well so far, but how long can she keep it up?

She thinks of young Mycah Manderly. A match with the lords of White Harbor would surely secure her authority. But no. She shakes that thought away. No more arrangements. Such love was a childish thing, it has only ever ended in pain.

As if on cue, Littlefinger enters. The last person Sansa wishes to see.

"My lady, I must confide in you some concerning observations," he says.

"If you must, Lord Baelish." He draws far closer than she would have bid him.

"It is about your brother, Bran. His behavior since returning here is deeply alarming, in my opinion. I'm sure you're happy to see him again, but all this talk of legends and magic as if they were true… I fear he may have lost his mind."

"You enjoy my favor, Lord Baelish, but do not tempt it." Sansa stands to leave.

"Yet I can see you fear the same!" he calls after her. "After all, are you even so sure he's still paralyzed? He seems to know an awful lot for someone bound to a chair."

"Perhaps, Lord Baelish, could it be there are simply things in this world that even you do not understand?" The horns at the gate drown out any reply. Visitors have arrived.

Beyond the walls, the Brotherhood Without Banners waits. Sandor Clegane looks up Winterfell, thinking back to his first visit, the one that started this whole damned mess. He curses the freezing snow as the gates swing open, revealing a full force of armed men, with Sansa Stark at the helm. The girl has risen far, he thinks. He always knew she would, everyone else had ignored the little bird. But she had learned well.

"The Lady of Winterfell, I presume?" Beric Dondarrion bows deeply. "May I request shelter and housing for my brothers, long set in our journey to the wall?"

Two Manderly guards encroach on him, tridents extended, but Sansa bids them to stand down.

"These are our guests," she orders. "The Starks do not turn away honest travelers."

* * *

**King's Landing**

In a dungeon, deep beneath the Red Keep, Ellaria Sand is chained to a wall. She looks with empty eyes as Cersei and Qyburn chain Tyene to the wall across from her. All the hate, all the rage has worn out. She simply does not feel. Does not feel, until Cersei plants a poisoned kiss on her daughter's mouth and leaves them alone in a torch-lit room. Now, Ellaria feels again. Pain, anguish, remorse... all materialize in the eyes of her dying child, locked into stone, eternally out of reach.

* * *

**Highgarden**

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater leaves a kiss on the cheek of the girl whose bed he has shared. In the days since taking Highgarden, he has happily let the lords deal with carting their loot back to King's Landing. There were far more interesting pursuits for a conquering warrior, most of which involved the bedroom. Wondering to the lord's chambers, he finds Dickon Tarly breaking fast.

"Mornin'. Rickon, is it?"

"Dickon, ser."

Bronn laughs, never tiring of mocking the boy's name. "Daft lad, you don't know what you're missing. You could have any girl in this castle."

"By betrothed awaits me in the Riverlands. My lord father says I must wait until I am knighted to wed. But surely after this battle, he will grant me that."

"Knighthood is overrated. Fuck your father."

Dickon spits out his food, shocked by the insult, but does not dare challenge Bronn. He has learned it is best to just let him talk.

"Don't they have anything worth eating here?" the sellsword mutters, rummaging through piles of fruit. "Besides all these damned plants?"

"Well, I... I like fruit," Dickon barely whispers. Bronn laughs until the door slams open.

"Dickon!" Lord Tarly marches into the room. "You're late! We were to ride at dawn!" The boy hastily composes himself and rushes to leave. As he exits, Bronn tosses an orange at him.

"You're not so bad, Dickon," he tosses another one. "Take it back to your lady." Dickon catches the fruit, smiles and runs away after his father's roaring voice.

* * *

**Winterfell**

Sandor tears into a chicken in the Great Hall, his eyes scanning the room. Beric and Thoros have met some fellow knights they once knew in passing, but old, fat Lord Wyman Manderly watches them with great displeasure. He sees the child Bran, now a man, but confided to a wheeled chair. Rather be dead than stuck sitting all my life, he thinks to himself, returning to his chicken until, with a clattering of armor, Brienne of Tarth sits across from him.

"I see you survived," she states. Sandor coughs up a bone.

"Of course, you're here, too," he mutters.

"Did you see the girl again?"

"Not since she left me for dead. You?"

"No."

"A pity. Can't expect her to have lasted long on her own." He resumes eating, but he hopes that isn't true. Arya Stark was a fierce girl. If her siblings have returned home, he silently hopes, perhaps she will too, one day. Not that he'll be around to see it.

At the head of the Hall, Sansa eats, attempting to ignore the unsolicited advice of Lord Manderly who, having already dispensed with three helpings of food, has found the energy to fully unleash his opinions.

"I consider it highly irregular to allow this band of outlaws to enter the gates, much less dine in your own hall," he blusters. "Lord Beric, I suppose once had a noble reputation, but Thoros is a madman, and The Hound… Need I explain my concern?"

"You need not explain anything to me, Lord Manderly," she looks down her table and sees a missing seat. "Lord Baelish, Maester Wolkan still has not joined us. Go find him, will you?"

As Littlefinger leaves, Sansa returns to trying to ignore Wyman's paranoid ramblings. She wishes she could have sat Lady Mormont here instead, or Brienne, or even silly young Pod. But, alas, these seats were expected by the most powerful guests. And that honor left her stuck between the Warden of the Vale and the Lord of White Harbor.

Scanning the hall, she sees Mycah, sitting with the Manderly guards. He waves, but she looks away, the memory of their awkward encounter in the springs fresh on her mind. Perhaps Lord Wyman was behind that as well... It seems like only a moment until Littlefinger stumbles back into the hall, his face flush with shock.

"My lady," he whispers in her ear. "Maester Wolkan is dead. He's been murdered, and the ravens destroyed!"

* * *

**Dragonstone**

A lone Ironborn ship has run aground on the shores of the island. Daenerys and Tyrion wait as Theon, Donnell, Obara and a small group of sailors disembark, the despair showing on their face.

"Is this all that is left?" Daenerys asks.

"I fear so," Donnell replies. "Euron came out of nowhere. I can't even say if Lady Yara lives."

A fire burns within Daenerys that she has not felt for some time. '_You do not want to wake the dragon_'. Her brother's voice rings in the back of her head as she turns to her Hand.

"This is your fault," she stares at the little man, never seeming more small in her eyes. Everyone had told her to attack, all but Tyrion and Missandei. And she had listened. That had been foolish. What did they know of war? Show mercy, they had said. Wait, they had said. The people will flock to you…

Tyrion has no response.

"Ready what ships we have left. Tell the Dothraki we make for the mainland tomorrow at daybreak. It is time the usurpers see my power."

"My queen, I do not believe it is wise…" Tyrion protests.

"No! I am done waiting, Tyrion Lannister. Where has waiting gotten me? It is time my enemies learn what it means to wake the dragon." Daenerys walks away, her dress flowing in the wind. The survivors follow, leaving Tyrion alone on the beach. The waves crash on the rocky shore, washing his hopes for a peaceful conquest back out to sea.

Later that day, Theon finds Jon overseeing his men, loading the freshly mined dragonglass for their eminent departure. Cautiously, he calls out his name. Jon turns, and upon recognizing, attacks. In a moment, Theon is on his back in the sand, eyes blurring with blood as Jon's fists rain down on his face again and again. What had he expected, he thinks, barely noticing the pain. He hardly felt anything anymore. Perhaps Jon would kill him now. A small justice in the world.

"Damn you!" Jon shouts. "Fight back!" He stands, looking down in disgust at his father's old ward. Theon coughs up blood, unmoving. His lips creep open to speak, haltingly.

"Do you… did they tell you… Bran and Rickon…"

"What, that you didn't kill them? That you murdered some poor farm boys instead, as if that makes it better?" Jon shakes his head. "Did you really think I could forgive you? Only the gods know where Bran is, and Rickon is dead, you might as well have killed them yourself."

Theon's head slumps to the side. His mind slips in time. How foolish he had been. This is all his fault. Ramsey was right about him…

"Kill me, then," he whispers. "I… d…d…deserve it."

"You saved my sister," Jon shakes his head. "We all have to live with the choices we make, Theon. I pray you find a way to live with yours". Theon continues to gag on the ground as Jon walks away. Perhaps if I lie here, he thinks, the gulls will eat me. Or the waves will wash me away. But the gulls never come, and the tides recede. Even death, he thinks, has no use for a craven Ironborn.

Within the fortress, Tyrion slumps, wine bottle in hand, onto the garden veranda. He collapses into a seat beside Missandei, clumsily pouring himself a glass and draining it just as quickly.

"All gone, just like that…" He cannot bring himself to believe it. Missandei, equally despondent, seizes the wine and begins to swallow straight from the bottle.

"No, no, no," Tyrion grabs it back to pour himself another glass. "Our queen can only stand to have one drunken advisor, and I assure you I have far more experience."

Missandei stares forlornly out at the garden. She has not seen Daenerys since the news became known. She does not know how to face her queen like this. All she can do is gaze out at the garden, but it is already touched by the cold. In her hands she holds a shriveled rose. Never before has she felt so far from home, where the leaves never wilted and no swords were bared…

"So this is winter," she says, to no one in particular. "The flowers have faded. And the butterflies have gone from the garden..."

* * *

**Oldtown**

Seneschal Ebrose carefully examines Ser Jorah Mormont. The shirtless knight's left side is now covered in scars, but the horrid greyscale is gone.

"A fascinating development, novice Tarly," Ebrose muses. "The ship we hired to take this man to Valyeria will be sorely disappointed. I don't suppose that you know what could have caused such an… unprecedented phenomenon?"

"No, sir," Sam tries to avoid eye conduct with his supervisor.

"Do you really think you can lie to me, boy?" Ebrose shakes his head. Sam lets out a terrified gasp.

"My lord, I beseech you, do not punish the lad," Ser Jorah asks. "He clearly has great skill. When I return to my master, Daenerys Targaryen…"

"Daenerys Targaryen?" Ebrose's mood sours quickly. "Good knight, do not fear for this young man. The Citadel is not blind to talent. But you are no longer ill. Gather your things and depart the premises. I would advise you find swift passage out of Oldtown."

As Jorah gathers his things, Ebrose turns to Sam. "As for you, enjoy your evening. Tomorrow morning, I expect to see you up before the dawn. In my chambers. You are to be my personal assistant, Samwell. Let us hope this is display here is no fluke."

Beaming with pride, Sam walks out of the Citadel to find Alleras and his other friends waiting. They burst out into a rousing cheer, jostling Sam about.

"I wish I could have seen the look on old Ebrose's face when he saw that knight!" Alleras shouts. "Let's get you to a tavern, Tarly. What barkeep could deny a drink to the man who cures greyscale?" The acolytes cheer again and run off down into the streets of Oldtown, joking and laughing all the way. Sam, however, hangs back.

"I don't think I'll go out tonight," he says quietly.

"Back to see Gilly?" Alleras smiles softly. "Sam the healer must become Sam the lover."

"Yes," Sam shuffles, embarrassed. "She wrote me saying some knight took in her and little Sam. A Ser Grindel, or Gunthor…"

"Gunthor Hightower?" Alleras almost falls over in shock. "Forget the taverns, Samwell, tonight I think I'll be dining with you!" The two friends walk away together towards the lights of city, as Alleras regales Sam with endless tales of Hightower valor.

* * *

**Winterfell**

Violence has broken out in the Hall. A circle of armored Manderly troops surround the Brotherhood, their razor-sharp tridents corralling the ragtag band with deadly efficiency. Sandor Clegane will have none of it. Seizing the end of the nearest trident, he throws the man holding it to the ground.

"Clegane, no!" Beric shouts, to no avail. The Hound knocks another guard over. Ignoring Beric, the other brothers join in. Mycah Manderly rushes into the fray. Sandor is unfamiliar with his stolen weapon, his inexperience allowing Mycah to disarm him. Shaking his head at the impudence, he simply picks the boy up and throws him across a table. Drawing his sword, Sandor whirls around. And there stands Brienne.

"Care for a rematch, Hound?" she asks, sword in hand.

"Enough!" Sansa yells as she enters, followed closely by Littlefinger and Yohn Royce. "Cease this fighting or I shall lock you all away!"

"I warned you about these men, Lady Stark!" Lord Wyman stands defiantly. "And now look what they've done!"

"They have done nothing that anyone can prove," Sansa says. "We will find the killer, but this nonsense will not help us at all."

"If I may," Littlefinger steps forward. "I have made a truly troubling discovery, my lady." He extends a small roll of paper. "It seems this was the last message Maester Wolkan received, before his untimely death."

As Sansa reads the sheet, her eyes darken.

"Well, what does it say?" Lord Wyman demands.

"It's addressed to you, Lord Wyman," she answers. "From the Queen's own hand. It seems you have been made Warden of the North… in exchange for delivering my brother's head to King's Landing. Certainly not a message meant for my eyes. A message perhaps, that may have been worth killing to hide…"

"That's outrageous!" Mycah shouts, storming forward. "Do not disrespect my lord with such accusations! And from this snake…" he moves to strike Littlefinger.

"That will be enough of that, boy!" Lord Wyman shouts. Mycah steps away, refusing to look at Sansa.

"Do you deny this?" Sansa extends the note. Lord Wyman is silent, his eyes flicking from Sansa, to Littlefinger, and back again. No answer comes. "So be it. Gather all your men. I do not want a single Manderly in Winterfell by the time I break fast tomorrow."

That evening, as the troops of White Harbor pack their things, Sansa stands in the yard. She will have to face the consequences of this decision tomorrow, but now she is focused on bidding the Brotherhood on their way.

"May the Lord of Light bless you, my lady," Lord Beric bids farewell, leading his men back out the gate until only Sandor lingers.

"Sorry about the fuss," he mutters. "Seems no good ever comes of me in Winterfell."

"Don't be absurd," Sansa reassures him. "This isn't your fault."

"If you say so, little bird. A word of advice, though. Don't let that Littlefinger out of your sight. No man like him survives this long by being trustworthy."

"Lord Baelish cares very deeply for me."

"Aye. He wanted to bed your mother and now I reckon he wants to bed you. And that makes you feel better?" He laughs a sad, pitiful laugh and rides away into the snow, leaving Sansa behind. She feels the eyes of Littlefinger, Bran, Mycah, Brienne and all the lords and ladies stabbing into her back. What true allies do I have left, she wonders?

* * *

**Dragonstone**

The Dothraki once again board themselves and their mounts onto great wooden ships. Daenerys watches approvingly, her dragons already circling above in the sky. Beside her, what remains of her counsel stand assembled.

"Lord Tarth has charted you a safe landing site and a path through the Stormlands," Tyrion reports. "If you make quick pace, you can pass through their lands before our enemies know you have marched."

"Good. Lord Hand, command of Dragonstone falls to you in my absence," Daenerys glares. "Do not fail me again."

Missandei steps forward, cautiously, but her queen embraces her as warmly as ever.

"Stay safe," Daenerys bids her loyal translator. "Lord Varys, you will come with us."

"My lady, I am no warrior, I fear I will only slow you down," the eunuch protests.

"Perhaps, but I do not want you out of my sight," Daenerys has made her distrust of Varys no secret. He shuffles away to prepare his things. As he leaves, Jon, Davos and Obara arrive. The King of the North is clearly angry.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"We march on the Reach. I will avenge those who cut down my allies."

"The whole Reach will be nothing if the dead are not stopped!" Jon argues. "I thought you understood. You promised you would come North!"

"Did I? I must fight my own battles, Jon Snow. Only then can I fight yours." She turns to Obara. "I would have you as my personal guard."

"No." The refusal surprises Daenerys.

"You are sworn to me."

"Ellaria Sand swore to you. This was her war, not mine," Obara throws down her spear. "When my father came for me, my mother did not want to let me go. He threw this spear on the ground and told me to choose. And so I made my choice. They say my mother died crying weeks later, and I have fought in this game of kings and queens ever since. You want your throne? My aunt and her children died for it. My father and sisters, too. Who will sing their praises? I want to fight for something great. You can build a throne of shit for all I care. I will go north, to find this Night King. Perhaps he will be a worthy foe."

Obara turns and leaves, Jon and Davos solemnly following in turn. Several Dothraki move to stop them, but Daenerys shakes her head.

"I will return to you, Jon Snow!" she calls out. He looks back for a final glance, but disappears over the tops of the cliffs without a word. The dragon and the wolf must go their separate ways, one north, one south. The great wars have only just begun.

* * *

**CREDITS**

_Rupert Graves would be my ideal guest star for Lord Blackwood. He's such a cool character from such a cool house, his absence from the show was tragic. I will be certainly amending that mistake in this story._

_With the Manderly conflict, Arya in Riverrun, the introduction of the Hightowers and everything happening in Dorne, events from here on out will be increasingly different from the show canon. So thanks for sticking around, even when many of the previous events were so familiar. As always, all feedback is greatly appreciated!_


	7. The Spoils of War

**S07E07 The Spoils of War**

* * *

**King's Landing**

Ser Balon Swann follows Euron Greyjoy through the streets of the city. The Lord Commander of the Queensguard has been on edge ever since the pirate king arrived.

"Our queen has instructed us to provide accommodations in the city for you and your men, Lord Greyjoy," he is saying, but the wild-eyed man is not listening. Frustrated, Balon does not realize where they are heading.

"Such hospitality will be unnecessary, my friend," Euron grins. Only now does Balon see they have reached the ruins of the Great Sept of Baelor. Euron's men and his many dark priests have already arrived, and are busy establishing rickety structures in the ruin of the once great temple. Amongst their number, Balon sees the likes of which he has only heard in dark tales around the fire - Priests of the Lord of Light, the Black Goat, the Lion of Night, Church of Starry Wisdom, even a shadowbinder, face hidden behind a lacquered mask.

"You see," Euron continues, "My brother once called me a godless man. But he was closed-minded. I am, in fact, a very godly man. But with so many options to choose from! When I worship, Balon, I cast a wide net. That way, I can never lose." He watches approvingly as one of his men paint a black kraken over the shattered face of The Father.

Always the most devout of knights, Balon can only gape in horror.

Back at the Red Keep, Tycho Nestoris, keyholder of the Iron Bank, reclines on a terrace. He has reluctantly agreed to lead the delegation to collect the Crown's debt. Personally, he loathes the trips he must make across the Narrow Sea. He pours himself a glass of fine Arbor wine as Queen Cersei sits beside him.

"They say winter has come to this horrible little continent of yours," he shudders. "I can already feel the chill. I pray you don't plan to keep me long."

"Of course not, my lord," Cersei smiles and pours herself her own glass. "You see, as I am sure you heard, one of our great houses has recently tried their hand at treason, and lost. And as they say, to the victor go the spoils."

* * *

**The Roseroad**

A vast train of soldiers and wagons stretches down the Roseroad and far over the horizon. Another two day's journey and they would be at the King's Road, then on to the capital. Dickon Tarly rides with the rear guard. He boasts to the knights around him of the beautiful maiden awaiting him in the Riverlands. They laugh along, humoring the young heir.

Lord Randyll Tarly himself rides at the front of the train with Lord Tytos Brax. The proud western lord is clad in his absurd, amethyst-encrusted armor. The gems on his breastplate form the shape of his unicorn sigil; meant to style himself after Prince Rhaegar, no doubt. To complete the look, a long purple cape flaps behind him and an iron horn, over a foot long, protrudes from the front of his helm.

Randyll, in his plain brown leather and plate, is embarrassed to ride beside such a fool, constantly prattling about his hunting prowess. The prowess of your knights, you mean, Randyll thinks. This man has clearly never slain anything more than a squirrel with his own hands. But even now, as peers, he dares not mock the Warden of the West.

As the sun sinks low on the horizon, he bids the train halt and make camp. Soon, his son has joined them at the lords' tents.

"What are you doing here Dickon? You're in the rear guard."

"I thought you'd want me to tent here, father?"

"Bah! I suppose it will do for tonight," Randyll mutters. "But you are no lord. Put yourself to work with the other men." Dickon gladly begins to build a fire. Surely once they have returned from this campaign, he thinks, his father will have him knighted and concede to his marriage at last.

* * *

**Dragonstone**

Tyrion Lannister looks forlornly over the table map of the war room. He sighs as Gold Finch tears down the banners of House Tyrell, House Greyjoy and Ellaria Sand.

"My lord Hand!" Missandei declares as she enters, Ser Argilac Horpe close behind. "News from Castlery Rock! House Crakehall has agreed to parlay!"

"Good for Damion, bringing his goodbrother on board," Tyrion, is at last able to smile. "His father and mine… did not get along. It seems he shall have the last laugh."

"I am afraid that was not the only bird that came today, my lord," Ser Argilac speaks, chillingly. Missandei lays three more scrolls on the table, stating their unfortunate content in turn.

"House Redwyne refuses to send their ships, for the Iron Fleet has begun to raid the Tyrell loyalists. Cersei has offered Warden of the North to Wyman Manderly. And Lord Tarth has seized the ships that took the Dothraki to shore. He said it was necessary to keep our plans hidden."

"Damn it all!" Tyrion throws a naval marker across the room, nearly hitting Theon, who stands silently in the corner.

"My lord Tarth says he can delay informing the queen for perhaps another day, but he will need to alert her," Argilac says. For a moment, silence lays over the room.

"How do you plan to defend Dragonstone, my lord?" Missandei asks. "Surely it's only a matter of time before Cersei sends the Iron Fleet here. Should we leave for Storm's End?"

Tyrion's eyes darken. He has already detirmined the only remaining option.

"Missandei. Prepare your things. Ser Argilac will be escorting you to Oldtown, to answer the Faith of the Seven's petition."

"And you as well, my lord?" she asks, hopefully.

"No. I must remain here. When Euron Greyjoy storms these walls, he must find me here. If I have fled, they will search until our plan is revealed. I must remain."

"But Tyrion…" Her spirits drops as he silently shakes his head. Removing the silver pin of The Hand from his chest, he places it into Missandei's hand.

"I pray we will all be reunited with our queen. But if this is good-bye… You must see that she walks her path wisely. What she has dreamt, you must build."

* * *

**The Citadel**

No matter how many times he steps into the Great Library, Sam never ceases to be amazed by it. Even now, its sheer scale distracts him as he follows Seneschal Ebrose through the winding maze of shelves, carrying his supervisor's load of books. He fights back a a sneeze as the dust from the heavy tomes fills his nostrils and his fingers begin to slip. At last, they stop to rest at a study table.

Ebrose begins to work, flipping through pages and jotting down notes with his quill. Sam has forgotten what it is the Seneschal came here to research. Some obscure disease, no doubt, for the man was the most renowned healer of all the maesters. He finds his eyes straying to the upper levels, watching novices, acolytes and maesters alike come and go, darting about in their robes. He wondered where among the endless stacks he could find the information Jon needed. How to beat the White Walkers. _If only there was someone else here that still believed in them..._

"You always have your head in the sky, don't you Samwell?" Ebrose speaks. Sam snaps back to attention, embarrassed. "Don't worry. At the least you should be prepared to craft a ring in astronomy. Of course, you'll need a place to hang it..."

Sam's eyes widen as Ebrose removes a metal collar from his robes and slides it across the table to him. He can barely bring himself to touch it, it seems to almost glow with a sacred light.

"Congratulations, Acolyte Samwell."

* * *

**Winterfell**

The lords of the north are restless. Sansa Stark sits alone in her chambers, head in her hands, an empty bottle of wine on the floor. The counsel has not assembled since she sent the Manderlys away. She knows she must face them, but she no longer knows what to say. She is stirred by a knock at the door.

"Leave me be!"

"My lady?" It is Brienne. Sansa reluctantly opens the door. "They're asking when you plan to address the assembly. House Manderly was the most powerful remaining force in the North. Without them…"

"You think I don't know that, Brienne? Why do you think I'm locked away in here?"

"It was the only way, Lady Stark."

"Don't call me that! I don't deserve it! Now leave me alone, go back to the yard, I'm sure our men need all the more training without the Manderly army to defend us."

Hurt, Brienne turns to leave. "But should we not at least inform your brother?"

"Jon!" Sansa just now realizes the problem. "He is set to return by White Harbor! We must get word to him at once!" She quickly marches out of the room, before remembering. "The ravens are all dead." Without ravens, she thinks, how can they warn Jon in time? Scanning her memory, Bran's ramblings come back to her. She had dismissed them then but now, if he was telling the truth, he could be Jon's last hope.

Bran, for once, is not in the godswood. Sansa finds him in the Great Hall, dining alone.

"Bran, we must talk," Sansa sits across from him. "Jon is returning to White Harbor, but does not know of Lord Wyman's treason. Without the ravens, we cannot warn him. Unless…"

"Unless I warg into a bird and fly him a message?" Bran shakes his head and pushes away from the table. "So you believe me now?"

"Yes," Sansa nods. "You are my brother, and I need your help. Jon needs your help!"

"I am not some fool performing magic tricks for little girls!" Bran snaps, bitterly. "I do not understand my own purpose, nor my powers. They are not toys to play with at whim."

"Why not?" Sansa pleads. "Why would the gods give you this if not to help us?"

"There is more to this world than Winterfell, sister," Bran wheels away. "So much more."

Alone once more, Sansa slams her fists down on the table, pounding out her frustration until they bleed. Only Jon's own wits can save him now.

* * *

**King's Landing**

In the Great Hall, Cersei sits on her throne with Qyburn and Euron on each side. The pirate's presence has unsettled the lords and ladies of the court, but the people of the city have flocked to him. This is exactly according to Cersei's plan. The highborn can bicker all they want, but chaos is the real enemy to her tenuous claim to the throne. The people are like sheep. Give them a flashy enough ram to follow, and they are easy enough to control. That was how her miserable former husband had kept the peace. And now Euron would do the trick.

Lord Commander Balon Swann is presenting four robed old men, closely huddled together - wisdoms of the Alchemist's Guild.

"We caught these ones trying to smuggle themselves to Dragonstone, my queen," Balon reports. "Trying to reclaim good favor with the Targaryen, no doubt."

"Well, Lord Commander, you know the punishment for treason. Bring me Ser Ilyn."

"My queen," their leader drops to his knees. "We beg you, spare us and we will serve loyally. Kill us and the secrets of wildfire die with us."

"I would not be so confident," Qyburn speaks, approaching the alchemists. "You shroud yourselves in secrecy, protecting yourselves with rumors. But I hear different rumors. I hear that your guild hasn't practiced magic in years. That making wildfire is just a simple formula. And formulas, well... they can be copied far more easily than spells."

"Impossible!" the guild leader spits at Qyburn.

"We shall see. Arthur!" The young Master of Whisperers steps forth, holding a large vial of glowing green liquid. Qyburn takes it and hands it to the Grand Master. The man backs away, staring at the vial.

"Drop it," Qyburn commands. "If you are right, you have nothing to fear." The silence in the hall is deafening. The Master's hands shake; sweat drips down his brow as Qyburn backs away. At last, the vial drops. With a hellish noise, the wildfire explodes, consuming the wisdoms in seconds. The lords turn away from the sight and the screams, but Cersei and Euron stare deep into the green light. Slowly, it dies away, and Ser Balon inspects the bodies.

"This one's still alive," he points at the charred Grand Master, drawing his sword to put the man out of his misery.

"Wait," Qyburn kneels to look into the burnt eyes of the whimpering alchemist. "A pity. I had hoped to learn true sorcery from you. But there are still secrets you can provide. Ser Balon, Arthur, take this man to the laboratories. He will be useful for experimentation."

As the bodies are cleared, those in attendance slowly regain composure. Euron, however, bursts out laughing.

"You're a good one, old man!" he slaps Qyburn on the back, nearly bowling him over. "I think I'm going to like it here!"

Once court has been dismissed, Euron returns to _The Silence._ Descending below deck to his quarters, he finds his niece chained where he left her.

"I hope you didn't touch any of my toys while I was out," he sneers, gesturing at the incredible array of bizarre and unsettling trophies that decorate the cabin wall to wall. "It took me no small amount of trouble to come by them all." He begins to wave some his favorites in Yara's face, showing them off like a boy presenting new nameday presents.

The rotten head of a black goat, sewn into a mask - Euron claims it gives the wearer the night-vision of a panther. A glass jar holds a giant, long dead hellbender, occasionally sparking with lightning. A dagger made from a wyrven's claw, a tapestry showing winged men, the skull of a walking lizard from the Green Hell. He does not touch, however, a carved black puzzle-box in the center of the room. In her time imprisoned here, Yara swears she has seen it move of its own accord.

"Don't let that one get to close to you," her uncle chuckles. "This on the other hand..." He presents a small, polished case the color of the sea. Opening it, he reveals a glistening conch shell lying on a bed of black velvet. The shell is inscribed with the runes of a forgotten tongue.

"Cersei is fun, but I know all she wants from me is ships. Ships, ship ships, all anyone talks about."

"Well, you are a pirate," Yara mutters. Euron slaps her back to silence.

"You still think that?," a sickening grin stretches across his face. "Oh, my niece, I am so, so much more. There are powers in this word no mere man can comprehend. And all the likes of Cersei and my brother are squabbling over who gets to sit on a pointy chair, when they could be so much more. Why would anyone want to be a king, when they can be a god?"

He truly is mad, Yara thinks, as her uncle leaves her alone once again in the darkness. She wonders what could possibly be so special about that shell. And then a scuffling sound. Wasn't the cube a little further to the left just a moment ago? It's nothing, she tells herself. The sounds are just rats. The trophies? Useless junk from across the sea.

* * *

**Oldtown**

Ser Jorah Mormont is surrounded by all manner of people, but has never felt more alone. He exhausted all his funds getting to Oldtown. Now he is healed, but he has no means of returning to his beloved, his queen.

It seems he has walked every road and alley in the fabled metropolis in the days since he left the Citadel. Today, he finds himself in a market. Scrounging coins from his pocket, he examines fresh produce. Spying a dragon's fruit, he is haunted again by memory.

Turning away, he bumps into a young woman, carrying a small boy on her hip. She recognizes the bear on his tunic.

"Are you the bear knight?" she asks. When Jorah nods, confused, she shakes his hand. "My name's Gilly! Samwell Tarly told me all about you! You should come dine with us!"

Grateful to see his savior again, Jorah follows Gilly back, neglecting to notice the banners of House Hightower when they enter the home of Ser Gunthor. It is not until he sits down to dine, alongside Gilly, Sam and Alleras, that Gunthor himself enters. The two men recognize each other instantly.

"You!" Gunthor shouts. "I thought you were dead!"

"Well, he would be if not for Sam, isn't that right?" Gilly smiles, not noticing the anger in her host's voice.

"This man married my sister and disgraced her name!" Gunthor slams his hand on the table. "I will not dine with him!"

"Yes, this was a mistake," Jorah turns and leaves the room. "My apologies for the interruption." In the silence that follows, the remaining guests awkwardly attempt to eat their meal. Sam breaks the silence with the news of his promotion to acolyte, and Alleras begins to recount the story of his own promotion, when Gilly interrupts.

"What I've always wanted to know," she asks, "is how you got accepted the first place. Sam says they don't let girls in the Citadel."

"Girls?" Sam and Gunther look confused as Alleras spits out his food and rushes away from the table. Gilly sits, confused.

"You mean you didn't know?"

After dinner, Sam finds Alleras on Gunther's balcony, overlooking the city. The flame of the Hightower acts as a second moon, always lighting the streets to keep them safe from thieves. Perhaps it is the lighting, or that she has let down her guard, but in this moment, the disguised young woman appears for the first time to Sam as her true self.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs. "I brought you desert."

"How wonderful." Sarcastic as always, she seizes a large slice of fruit cake.

"I just want you to know, your secret is safe with us."

"Thank you for that, Tarly."

"Huh... So that's why you call yourself the Sphinx..." Sam thinks back to all their hours together, wondering how he could have missed this. "Tell me, who are you really?"

"Let's not share all the secrets in one night, shall we?" Alleras crams the rest of the fruitcake into her mouth and climbs over the balcony. "Sleep well, Tarly. An acolyte needs their rest, you know."

* * *

**Winterfell**

In his dreams, Bran is running once again over the rooftops of Winterfell, he looks down below to see familiar faces, many now long dead. But they are disjointed in time. Here is his mother, the same as the last he saw her, but there is his father, just a boy. And there his aunt Lyanna, and there old maester Luwin, no longer so old.

But as he looks back in front of him, he finds he is running towards the edge of the roof. Yet he cannot stop himself. He is carried off, over the ledge and beings to fall for what seems like an eternity. He screams with lungs that make no sound until he slams into the ground and his lungs fill with swamp water. He lies there in muck, feeling as if every bone has broken. A great fire burns in the sky, blinding him. He turns away only to stare into the yellow, deadly eyes of a lizard lion. Its black pupils morph into a shape of a little man, dancing on water. He has no mouth, but seems to speak.

"Fly, boy. Fly!"

* * *

**White Harbor**

Fog lies heavy over the bay as Davos peers out, searching for a glimpse of Newcastle, the island home of House Manderly that guards the great city of White Harbor. But nothing can be seen through this icy haze. Obara Sand joins him on the bow, still clad in her southern clothes.

"Aren't you cold, m'lady?" Davos asks.

"I like it," she answers gruffly. Davos heads back below deck, where Jon waits, poring over a map he has copied from the runes on Dragonstone.

"It will be good to be back in Winterfell, my king," Davos pours himself a drink.

"I'm not going back, Davos," Jon catches the knight off guard. He turns to reply, but Jon's eyes are fixed on the map. Drawn there, farther beyond the wall than any man had ventured in centuries, was a vast weirwood tree. And beneath it, the Night King.

"I have to go there," Jon points at the tree. Before Davos can answer, a voice calls from above deck.

"Ship approaching!" Davos and Jon rush up to the deck, where Obara waits.

"Stay with the king!" he tells her. "I'll see what this is." Crossing to the bow, he sees a Manderly patrol boat, blue-green sails unfurled, blocking their path. At the head of the ship, above a carved wooden merman, stands Ser Marlon Manderly. While half the size of his lord and cousins, Marlon cuts an imposing figure in the silver and green scaled armor of his house, heavy green cape barely bothered by the wind, a great seashell helm covering his face. Davos would be frightened by the man even if he didn't have his trident pointed at the center of his chest.

"Stand down, Ser Davos, and show me to your so-called king," Marlon leaps onto the Stark ship, his men follow. "By the order of Queen Cersei, you are all under arrest." But by the time his soldiers reach below deck, Jon and Obara have already leapt into the frigid water, swimming desperately towards shore.

* * *

**Sunspear**

Princess Arianne reclines in the sun, barely clothed, as Ser Gerald Dayne discusses the affairs of the kingdom. He is in full armor, but does not seem to even break a sweat.

"We must be wary of House Yronwood, my lady," he is saying. "These are dangerous times. Many great houses have fallen at the hands of their bannermen. They may seek to follow the Boltons, Freys and Tarlys."

"And tell me, Darkstar, where are the Boltons and the Freys?"

"Dead, princess. But wiser men learn from the mistakes of fools." Arianne pays little heed to this, her mind on other matters, until loud trumpets stir her. Running through the garden, she finds the delegation from King's Landing has arrived. At its head ride Ser Arys Oakheart and Ser Osmund Kettleblack. These must be the most handsome knights alive, she thinks, even more so than Gerald…

Darkstar, for his effort, tries to cover his princess, but she pushes him away.

"Welcome to Dorne, good sers," she smiles as they demount, soaking in their reactions. "I hope you will enjoy all you see here."

* * *

**Oldtown**

Ser Gunther Hightower rides his horse through the gates of the Blackstone Fortress, the ancient seat of his house, forming the base of the great Hightower itself. He looks with pride at its oily, unadorned black walls. As a child he often wondered how it was made. Now, even after studying four years in the Citadel, he knows no one, even the archmaesters themselves, knows the truth of that secret.

Dismounting, he walks further, into the court of his eldest brother, Baelor. The eldest son of Lord Leyton, Baelor presides over all matters, as their father has not descended the tower in years. Gunthor takes his seat in the perfectly smooth, reflective hall, at the side of Baelor and his stepmother, the Lady Rhea.

The hall has many booths, not just for the many members of Gunthor's family and their bannermen, but for the representatives of The Faith, The Citadel, and the leaders of the smallfolk, as well. All day, visiting dignitaries and commoners alike petition Ser Baelor. Until at last one man appears, head hanging humbly – Ser Jorah Mormont.

"You dare show your face here again, after I threw you out of my house!" Gunthor stands angrily.

"Let him speak, brother," Baelor says. "It must be a grave matter to bring him here."

"My lord," Jorah kneels. "I now serve the true queen, Daenerys Targaryen, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, heir to the Iron Throne. House Hightower was always true to House Targaryen. I bid you to let me return to her with your great army and fleet."

While Baelor muses on this, a commotion stirs in the Faith's booth. Septon Crassus, one of their leaders, the Devout Ones, speaks.

"The Targaryens have always kept the Faith, Ser Baelor. The Seven bless Queen Daenerys. We urge you do the same."

"I disagree!" Archmaester Perestan stands. "Defying Cersei invites war onto Oldtown! We must remain neutral!"

"How much longer will we sit idly by?" Ser Garth Hightower, second son and commander of their armies, shouts. "My men are ready for war!"

Baelor bids silence in the court. He exchanges long glances with Gunther and Rhea, scans the faces of those assembled in the booths, then up at the ceiling, as if to seek some answer from his father, high above them all. But no answer has come for oh, so long. Only cryptic messages to build and build, for a battle without a name. At last, he decides.

"Ser Jorah. My ships are not ready for battle. But perhaps we can still help you. Humfrey?" The youngest of Lord Leyton's line, a beanpole of a young man, stands. "You will sail our former goodbrother to Lys." He chuckles at Jorah's reaction to the new home of his former wife. "If, Ser Jorah, you can convince my sister's new husband to sell you ships, we will cover the cost."

* * *

**Highgarden**

Jaime exits the lord's hall exasperated by the squabbling. The death of House Tyrell has caused chaos that even fear of Randyll Tarly cannot quell. The hard Warden has no interest in Highgarden, he has ridden off and his bannermen returned to the Marches. Now the Florents, Cranes, Oakhearts and Fossoways have all descended to take the castle as their own. Even the mountain lords of House Vyrwel descend from Darkdell to lay their own tenuous claim. They have not ceased their arguing from the moment of Lady Olenna's death.

Jaime finds peace in the castle's hedge maze, and also Bronn, in the midst of intimacy. As the girl runs off, Jaime sits beside the annoyed knight.

"Same one? That's not like you," he smirks.

"She's nice."

"This is a nice place, isn't it? I wish we could stay here forever."

"Why don't you? Tell all them lords to bugger off. Make yourself lord. They won't stop you."

"No. I must return to Cersei. This war is not over."

"And you think you'll still be standing at the end of it?" Jaime has no answer. The two friends can only sit together as the night falls and the bittersweet smell of winter roses wafts through the maze.

* * *

**The Roseroad**

The next day, the loot train is moving ever closer to King's Landing, but not nearly as fast as Randyll Tarly would like. The fool Brax has stopped to take lunch, and holds up the entirety of progress.

"You ever kill a unicorn, Tytos?" he asks, rolling his eyes as the lord attempts to eat with his horned helm still on.

"Of course not," Brax speaks, mouth full. "All stuff of legend, if you ask me."

"You've got a damned fairy's tale as your sigil," Randyll shakes his head and walks away from camp. Atop a hill, he looks out, staring at the horizon. All this belongs to him now. That is what generations of hard work and culling the weak achieves, he tells himself. Over the centuries, House Tarly had risen from a minor bannerman to Lord of the Marches, and now all of The Reach will serve them.

As a point, Randyll Tarly does not smile. But, with no one watching, he can allow a grin for the future he has built for his heir. It is as he thinks upon this that he first hears it – the thundering of a thousand hooves.

Sprinting back to the road, he begins to yell orders.

"Incoming! Prepare for battle!" He kicks over the fire, then sees Dickon. "Get to your horse, boy. Warn Ser Jaime, the savages are here!" Leaving his son, Randyll mounts his hourse, a quiver of pointed javelins at his side. As his men mount behind him, he stares forward, the vast line of Dothraki just now coming into view.

"Charge!" The line of Southern troops rushes the Dothraki, but they are woefully unprepared. The eastern warriors fire arrows from atop their steeds, screaming at the top of their lungs. Many falter, but this does not faze Randyll. As the lines crash together, and chaos descends, he hurls his javelins with deadly accuracy until, suddenly, he sees they are gone. His horse shot out from under him, he goes to the ground.

As he lies in the dirt, the most unearthly of sounds fills the air. He looks up in awe as Daenerys flies Drogon overhead, the smaller dragons behind her, headed straight for the loot train.

Back on the road, Lord Brax rushes madly through the chaos. Unable to see clearly, he wrenches off his helm. That is when he sees them. At once, all boasts of slaying dragons are gone, replaced with pure terror. Lord Brax flees. He finds Dickon, preparing to mount his horse, and shoves the boy out of the way, claiming the mount as his own. And so Tytos Brax rides his horse the wrong way down the Roseroad, fleeing in desperation as three dragons descend on the wagons, and the world turns to flame behind him.

* * *

**CREDITS**

_Guest Star Cary Elwes as Baelor Hightower_

_I realize that Arya's arc has kind of been sidelined these last two episodes. In part, it's simply a matter of needing the timelines to add up. But her wounds are serious, so I feel it's justified in-story. But don't worry, she's on the verge of rejoining the central plot._

_This is the start of the full unveiling of House Hightower. I can't wait to see what GRR Martin does with them in the books, their omission from the show was tragic, and I've loved bringing them to life here. Ramin Djawadi wrote a great theme for them, though. You should totally play it while Gunthor is entering the Blackstone Fortress: _ watch?v=xzP3ChtcMK4


	8. Bend The Knee

**S07E08 Bend the Knee**

* * *

**Oldtown**

In the harbor, a crew of Hightower men are loading a small but sturdy vessel, supervised by Ser Humfrey Hightower, a youthful knight with wild hair and a gleam of adventure in his eye. Samwell Tarly stands beside Ser Jorah Mormont, bidding farewell.

"I and my queen will forever be in your debt, Samwell Tarly," Jorah bows.

"You pledge to advise her to join the fight in the North?" Sam asks.

"I do. The Long Night must never come again. Daenerys can stop it."

"Then you'll be needing this," Sam presents a long object wrapped in cloth. Jorah examines it - Heartsbane, the family blade of House Tarly. "It's Valyerian steel. It can kill the Walkers."

"I can't take this," Jorah tries to return it, but Sam refuses.

"It won't be doing me any good, Ser Jorah. Take it, and restore your honor." With a nod, Jorah leaps onto the boat as it departs the dock, sailing east into the morning sun.

* * *

**The Roseroad**

The cries of the wounded still echo over scorched earth as the Dothraki pick their way through the ruins of the loot train, putting the burnt and dying soldiers out of their misery. The survivors, barely a quarter left, are huddled together on the ground before the three dragons. It's the Field of Fire come again, Randyll Tarly thinks, the stench of dragonfire and burnt flesh rotting in his lungs. Will the singer write songs of my own failure, too?

Daenerys Targaryen walks down the line of capitulating troops. Varys, Jakarro and Malakho follow close behind. She climbs atop a rock to speak to the survivors.

"Men of the Reach! You betrayed your liege lord and defied your true queen! I have returned to my home to take what is mine. All those who stand with the usurper Cersei will burn! But I am not without mercy. You were sent here by men who do not care if you live or die. Forsake your arms and bend the knee, vowing never to defy me again, and you may return to your homes."

In masse, the knights and smallfolk alike toss out their weapons. But as the Dothraki begin to gather the discarded blades, Randyll Tarly is filled with rage.

"I will not yield!" he stands with pride. "The Targaryen dynasty ended with the ravings of a mad king. And now his whore daughter floods our lands with savages and barbarians, trying to steal back the throne! I will not have it. Any man who would has no honor!"

"Aye!" one of his knights stands. "I stand with the Warden of the South. I will not kneel!" Randyll stands ever taller as man after man join the chorus of defiance, rising to stand behind him. Let us see what this girl is truly made of, he thinks.

"I will not kneel!" Randyll turns to see his son, Dickon, rise and walk toward him through the ranks. The fool!

"I told you to leave, boy!" Randyll hisses as Dickon stands beside him.

"I am no coward." For the first time in his life, Dickon defies his father.

"This is your final chance," Daenerys glares down at twenty-some men before her. "Bend the knee, or you will face the fate of all traitors."

"There is only one Queen!" Dickon shouts. "Queen Cersei Lannister!"

"Shall we kill them for you, Khaleesi?" Jakarro asks.

"My queen," Varys protests, "It will not do for us to execute entire houses."

"No. Stand back" Daenerys tells her men. Varys breathes a sigh of relief. "Drogon!" The earth shakes as the great dragon moves forward, peering down at the men left standing. "Dracarys."

Randyll Tarly turns away from the beast to look at Dickon one final time. Standing there, unflinching, he sees himself as a lad, the heir he had always wanted. And as the air heats, Randyll Tarly could have felt sadness, or remorse for the actions that led him here. But instead his mind thinks of his other son, with his Wildling whore, polluting his own bloodline. If that be the future, Randyll thinks, it is better Dickon not live to see it.

And then the fire rains down.

As the bones still smolder and the surviving soldiers walk home in defeat, Varys walks a swiftly as he can, trying to avoid touching the carnage, as he follows Daenerys.

"My queen, I feel it is necessary to voice my concerns. What you did back there…"

"Is what I must do," Daenerys stops and faces her advisor. "Tell me, Lord Varys, do you know why I brought you along with me?" He does not answer. "Because I do not yet know if I can trust you. You questioned my judgement in front of my men, in front of our enemies! You will never do that again!"

"My lady, I assure you, I mean only to advise."

"Tell me now, Lord Varys. Whose side are you on?"

"I am on the side of the people of Westeros. You can trust I will always do what is best to ensure their safety and freedom."

"Then we want the same thing. But if you ever even think of betraying me," she gestures to the ruin around them, "you will learn what it means to wake the dragon."

* * *

**King's Landing**

The Small Counsel chamber has never been more tense. Lady Genna Lannister has taken a seat at her niece's left hand. All eyes rest on Euron Greyjoy, who yawns as he reclines in the seat of the Master of Ships. All eyes but Ser Wylis Manderly's, who is desperately trying to avoid eye contact. Euron leans close to his ear.

"Boo!" he yells! Wylis leaps out of his seat in fright. Young Arthur Waters bursts out in laughter.

"That's enough!" Genna orders. "This meeting will come to order!"

"Lord Selwyn Tarth reported the capture of several Targaryen ships off Cape Wrath. He believes they transported the false queen and her Dothraki to the mainland," Arthur reports. "This was confirmed by Lord Dondarrion."

"And have the marcher lords moved against them?" Cersei asks.

"No, I'm afraid Lord Dondarrion masses his armies in the pass. He fears an invasion from Dorne."

"Tell that paranoid old bastard we have Princess Arianne under control! If he can't bring himself to defend the East from more than one direction, perhaps we will have to find a new Warden!" Cersei fumes. Her victories over Olenna Tyrell and Ellaria Sand have proven all-too short-lived.

"The delegation from the Iron Bank grows impatient," Ser Wylis speaks. "Have we received word from the Reach?"

"They should be returning any day now," Genna assures them. "Keep the bankers in the brothels until they do. In other matters, I received word from Riverrun. It seems Lord Tully has stumbled our missing Stark girl."

"Arya?" Cersei asks. "Can he be trusted with her?"

"He saw fit to notify us."

"Good. I want her brought here at once. It is long past time we stomp out the Starks once and for all."

* * *

**The North**

A large snow-crusted plain stretches out for miles ahead, the cold winter wind whipping up frozen dust into the faces of two figures riding stocky, long-haired horses away from White Harbor.

Jon Snow and Obara Sand wear heavy, furred garments, purchased from a poor farmer in the hills surrounding the city. The old man had taken them in, near frozen from their watery escape. He had expected nothing but the goodwill of the gods in return, and had nearly fainted at the pile of coin they left him. Now, the two bastards, barely knowing one another, ride north into the storm.

"Will Ser Davos be alright?" Obara asks. She had grown fond of the kindly old man.

"The Manderlys have always been our allies," Jon replies. "But I don't have time for negotiations. He's a clever man. Whatever has happened in White Harbor, he'll be fine."

"And the dragonglass?"

Jon shakes his head at that thought, the entire reason he had sailed south. "Pray Lord Wyman has the sense to put it to good use and send it to Winterfell."

"Aren't we going to Winterfell?"

"No," Jon removes his map from his pocket, holding it up to the horizon. "Our journey will be taking us much, much further."

* * *

**Winterfell**

Littlefinger enters the Great Hall to find Lady Mormont, Lady Karstark and Lord Cerwyn beside Sansa Stark, sitting in her father's old chair. She certainly has come to look like she belongs there, he thinks. But this is not the throne he wishes to see her on. And time is running out to retreat with her from the North. It's the brother that's the problem, he thinks. So long as she believes he needs her, she'll never leave.

"Lord Baelish," Sansa speaks. "We have examined the situation thoroughly. More and more smallfolk flock to the Winter Town every day. We cannot continue to feed and house both them and our armies without the support of House Manderly."

"House Manderly is gone, my lady."

"The lady is not blind, Lord Baelish!" Lyanna Mormont snaps. "We were told you were a clever man, and that is all you have to say? Are all southerners so dull?"

"That's enough," Sansa quiets the girl. "Whatever offer Cersei has given them, we will not survive the winter without their aid. You will travel to White Harbor and petition them to remain true to their loyalties."

"Cersei offered Wyman Manderly Warden of the North! My apologies, your grace, but what better deal could you offer him?"

"Myself." Baelish chokes at the response.

"What?"

"I will marry Mycah Manderly in exchange for his lord's continued support. Cersei would make him her servant. I offer House Manderly control of a Free North."

"Sansa, I must protest," Littlefinger marches forward.

"Do not forget your place, Lord Baelish!" He turns to see Brienne and Pod glaring at him from the doors of the hall.

"You will leave for White Harbor tomorrow morn'." Sansa orders.

Early the next morning, Littlefinger rides out from Winterfell as the earliest rays of sun begin to appear, six Vale knights accompanying him. He leaves behind a gift in the room of Bran Stark, who still tosses in an unpleasant, dream-torn slumber. Beside his bed rests a Valyrian Catspaw dagger and a note from Petyr Baelish, deeply concerned about the young lord's welfare and warning that Sansa may be plotting to usurp Jon. Such a dagger may be necessary protection, the note says, if Bran gets in her way.

* * *

**Sunspear**

The sun burns down on a small hunting party, adrift in a sea of scorching sand. Three figures lie crouched beyond a dune, in yellow and brown hunting cloaks. Ser Arys Oakheart and Ser Osmund Kettleblack have never felt such heat before in their life. Yet their guide, Gerold Dayne, has barely broken a sweat. He takes a long swig from an antelope's horn flask.

"Can I beg a drop of that?" Osmund asks. "'Fraid mine's all run dry." Gerold passes the flask. Osmund takes a deep drink, recoils and spits it out. "The hell is that shit?"

"Lemon water," Gerold grabs it back. "It clears the mind." Bow in hand, he rolls out from behind the dune to approach a magnificent oryx, barely 50 yards away.

"I think that's the most he's said since we've got here," Osmund sniggers in hushed tones. He's greatly enjoyed his time in Dorne, but Gerold has proven an awful bore. "I hope he kills the damned thing so we can get back to the Princess."

"Shhh! Have you never hunted before, Kettleblack?" Ser Arys' eyes are fixed on the oryx. There are no beasts like this back home in The Reach.

"I suppose I always bored too easily," Osmund sighs, struggling to retrieve any final drops from his empty wine flask. "Say, which of us do you think she likes more?"

"We're to take the Princess back to King's Landing, not to bed," Arys says without looking back. Seeing Gerold draw near to the prey, he removes his own bow.

"No one said we can't have some fun on the way there. Who knows, maybe she'll take us both at the same time. You know what they say about Dornish women!" Forgetting himself, Osmund laughs out loud. The oryx spooks and, in the instant before it can run, Arys unleashes an arrow. It flies past Gerold's head and kills the beast in a single shot.

As it hits the ground, Gerold glares back at the Queensguard knights, robbed of his kill.

That evening, they feast on the bounty of the day's hunt in the presence of Princess Arianne Martell. She is at her most alluring, as always clad in the most colorful and revealing of gowns. The wine flows freely as she entertains her delightfully handsome guests.

"Gerald will have the beast's hide prepared to take back with you, Ser Arys. It will be quite the trophy, won't it Gerold?" The grim knight grunts in reply, not looking up from his meal. "I don't know if we've ever had a guest kill an oryx before. But I don't know if we've ever hosted a Kingsguard knight before. Not since Gerold's cousin, Arthur!" Gerold visibly bristles at the name.

"Well, we're the Queensguard, now, actually," Arys corrects.

"Ah, yes, of course, how silly of me," Arianne giggles. Osmund has not taken his eyes off her for the entire dinner. He can't believe how blind his companion seems to her beauty. Surely, he thinks, the princess is the most beautiful woman in the realm. They once said that about his queen. He doubts she will be as pleased to meet Arianne as he has been.

"Now, here's something I've been wondering since you got here," she looks both knights up and down, shamelessly flirtatious. "Which one of you is better with his sword?"

Now we're getting somewhere, Osmund thinks. "Arys, is of course a mighty warrior, my lady, but I must say I have far more experience."

"Jaime Lannister beat you!" Arys argues. Osmund almost chokes, does the poor fool really think the girl is talking about steel? "He never beat me!"

"That's because he never fought you!" Osmund jeers. The mood is ruined, he moves on to his desert and returns to sneaking glances down their host's neckline. But when he moves to make conversation again, he is caught horribly off guard to see her and Arys staring into each other's eyes, sharing hushed jokes.

"Looks like you missed your shot, boy," Gerold whispers in his ear as he leaves. "Best try your luck with the serving girls."

* * *

**Highgarden**

This is why I never wanted to be Lord of the Westerlands, Jaime thinks through a splitting headache after yet another attempt to settle the disputes of the lords and ladies who had rebelled against the Tyrells. Let Ser Jon Bettley handle them. His old friend had always been better at politics.

If only they could all be as indifferent as the marcher lords. He may loathe Randyll Tarly, but at least the man was no schemer. As he looks down from the ramparts, His mind strays to the loot train. And then he sees it – a lone horseman madly racing towards the gates. The torn purple cloak can only belong to Lord Tytos Brax.

As the gates open, the bloodied and singed lord collapses off his exhausted horse. A crowd gathers. Jaime and Bronn push their way to the front.

"Get this man to the maester!" Jaime yells, before leaning down over Tytos.

"She burned them…" the lord stammers through shaky breaths. "She burned them all!"

As men carry Lord Brax away on a stretcher, Jaime and Bronn stare out the open gates into the fields beyond. They both know what this means.

"Get Qyburn's battleplans," Jaime turns around and begins to bark orders. "And get a raven to turn the damned Risley cavalry back around! The dragons are coming!"

* * *

**King's Landing**

In Qyburn's laboratory, his young assistants gather around, as Qyburn and his protégé, Arthur Waters, dispense charts and texts of anatomy. Watching with bored eyes, half-asleep, is Ser Lyle "Strongboar" Crakehall. Strongboar was sent by his father in hopes of joining the Queensguard, but Cersei had taken an instant dislike to the boorish oaf. A knight of House Mooton was chosen instead, and now the Strongboar found himself captain of the Hand's guard, a role that seemed to consist of little more than sitting in on lectures.

"Today, my little birds, we will begin to learn the marvels of the human body," Qyburn teaches with pride. One of the children, a particularly filthy girl named Alys, is not so interested.

"When will we get to stab someone again?" she mutters "That was more fun than this."

"Oh, but my dear Alys," Qyburn shakes his head. "Fighting with our fists and blades has its place, but wars are won with our minds."

"Maybe for old men like you," she turns up her stubby nose. "But I'm a fighter."

"Even fighters must have knowledge," Qyburn picks up a scalpel and crosses to his dozing captain. "For example, if I stab Ser Lyle here…" The Strongboar snaps awake with pain as the scalpel pierces his side. "It may hurt a little, but do no real harm."

Ser Lyle gasps, doubling over as the children laugh at his pain.

"Even killing is a science. Arthur, please mend our friend's wounds. Now…" with a flourish, Qyburn removes a sheet from a nearby table, unveiling a prisoner - some common thief, heavily sedated, but still very much alive. He gestures to a tray of scalpels as his students rush in. "Let us find where the truly vital organs lie."

"Lord Qyburn!" Arthur returns to the room. "The queen is waiting outside."

"You can finish the rest of today's lesson, Arthur," Qyburn pats the boy on his head. "I shall see what our lady desires of us today."

Qyburn finds Cersei in her patio with Genna. The old woman looks up to see the curious man arrive. She has always prided herself as a judge of character, but her niece's Hand has proven elusive to decipher.

"Lord Qyburn," Cersei says grimly. "More bleak news comes to us from Oldtown every day, it seems."

"My little birds assure me that the fleet will not sail until it is pledged to us."

"Their fleet is no longer our greatest concern," Genna speaks. "The Devout Ones fled the High Sparrow, back to the Starry Sept. They have declared our queen an apostate and have made overtures to Daenerys Targaryen."

"I see," Qyburn finds Oldtown on the map. "And the Faith holds tight the will of House Hightower."

"You have many connections in Oldtown, Qyburn. We must ensure this threat does not grow out of hand," Cersei commands. "It is time you arrange a homecoming."

"But my duties are here," the Hand protests. He has longed for years to return to Oldtown, but there is so much work yet to do in King's Landing...

"We can manage," Cersei assures him. "Your proteges will ensure your projects here continue. But securing the loyalty of the Hightowers is our greatest priority."

"As you wish, my queen," Qyburn leaves to pack his things, whispering in Cersei's ear as he passes. "In regards to the matter we spoke of earlier, see me in private, before I leave."

* * *

**Oldtown**

Sam follows Seneschal Ebrose around the mortuary as the old man conducts an autopsy on a recently deceased maester.

"So, Acolyte Samwell, how go your studies?"

"They go well, Seneschal," Sam fumbles with the dead man's bloated liver, struggling to weigh the slippery organ.

"I hear you've proven very adept at astronomy. And anatomy as well, though we all already knew that. Samwell, Curer of Greyscale!" The old man chuckles as he goes about his work, operating on the corpse as he has a hundred others just like it.

"I was meaning to ask, though, lord Seneschal, when might it be possible to begin work on my Valyrian link?"

"Studies of magic? I'm afraid only old Marwyn the Mage still cared to maintain such work. And he left near a year past to seek the Targaryen girl. Who knows if he'll return..."

"But, I don't know, could it be possible for me to look into the archives? Surely the library retains such texts. I was sent here to research the White Walkers…"

Sighing, Ebrose removes his gloves and draws close to Sam, looking him in his eyes.

"Oh, my boy," he shakes his head. "The White Walkers again?"

"Seneschal, I saw them! I killed one!"

"I have no doubt you saw something out there beyond the wall, Samwell. Such temperatures can play maddening tricks on the mind. But here we market in wisdom and reason, boy. The dead do not walk the earth. Any magic that may once have shaped this world, which I doubt it ever did, is long gone."

"But the dragons! They said they were gone, too, and now they've returned!" Sam chases after Ebrose as he gathers his things to leave, disappointed.

"Men called the dragons magic because they have never seen them before. And that bred fear. This girl rides her beasts into a world that has had over a century to study and cripple their myths."

"But…"

"Who do you think killed all the dragons the last time around, Samwell? Not gallant knights or hooded sorcerers. Men of science, who built machines and learned their weaknesses." Walking through the halls, Sam realizes Ebrose has led him back to the library. He gestures at the endless lines of books, spiraling up to the ceiling.

"Science and reason are the only things worth your trust, my boy. That is what we are trying to build here. To free mankind from fear of the unknown. A world we can control. Such a world has no place for sorcery or prophecy, glass candles or spells, much less dragons! Put aside your childish fantasies, Sam. Let the old world die... and help us build the new one."

* * *

**Sunspear**

Ser Arys Oakheart rolls over as he awakes, startled to find himself on a round, colorful bed, head entangled in thin silks, blown by wind through open windows. Slowly, the memories of the past days, culminating in last night, return to him. And what a night that had been…

He need not imagine the woman he had slept with, however, as Arianne Martell sits on the edge of the bed, still naked, breathing in the breeze from the ocean. Arys tries to rise.

"Oh, no, stay my knight, stay!" she rolls back on top of him. "We have so much left to do!"

"I'm sorry, I've got to get ready. We're to leave tomorrow, for the capital," he leaves the bed, slowly pulling his discarded clothes back on. He finds his shirt on a desk, beside a series of scrolls awaiting seals.

"Ugh, the capital. Your horrid queen wants to take you away from me." She has come up behind him again, pressing her flesh tightly against his, and massaging his muscles with her gentle hands. "I can't bare it."

"Yes, well, that is the nature of our duty," Arys sighs. If only he could stay here forever.

"Your duty to who? Your queen or your people?" She runs her fingers through his hair. "What if I told you that you could stay with me, after all? And all I need is your seal?" Arys glances back to the unmarked scrolls as Arianne pulls him back to the bed.

"Why go back to the capital? Cersei will never give you what you deserve." She pulls his pants back off. "I'm the only one who truly appreciates your noble lineage…"

* * *

**Riverrun**

The gates of Riverrun lower to let enter Ser Harwyn Plumm and an compliment of Western troops. The hard-eyed knight is commander of the western presence in the Riverlands, and has arrived, warhammer in hand, to personally collect Arya Stark for delivery to King's Landing.

He finds Lord Edmure Tully waiting, with Lord Jonos Bracken and several of their own knights. The reinstated lord of the Riverlands bows humbly.

"Welcome, Ser Plumm, we have prepared a fine meal for you."

"I don't need your damned meal, Edmure. Where is the girl?"

Arya is, in fact, fast asleep, as she has been for most of her time in Riverrun. Her wounds have almost fully healed, but she has been kept heavily sedated to ensure she does not stray far. But tonight, something rouses her from her slumber. She creeps from the bed, finding Needle tucked away on the maester's shelf, and creeps to the door. Stepping outside, she is confronted by a man in dark red armor, a raven on his shoulder, and two unconscious guards at his feet.

She moves to strike him, but Tytos Blackwood holds up his hands.

"I'm here to help, Lady Stark," he says. "The Lannisters are here for you."

"Here for you!" the raven squawks, earning a harsh hush from its master.

"But my uncle…"

"Your uncle made his own choices girl. Follow me if you want to live!" As Tytos leads Arya through the dark halls, they can hear the echoing of the castle's other guests, sounding all too near. Suddenly, they halt. Another guard lies unconscious in the hall.

"I wasn't here before," Tytos whispers. The duo freezes as a tall, gaunt figure materializes from the shadows, holding the fallen man's sword. Every hair on Arya's body stands on end as, through the torn and burnt flesh, she recognizes the Starved Man. She couldn't beat him before… and there are no wolves to save her now.

"Run!" Tytos hisses. Arya turns and flees, the raven flying after her, as Tytos draws his sword and lunges at the shadowy assassin. Arya has never been to Riverrun, but she cannot panic, not now. Breathing calmly, she calls back all her training. Syrio Forel's voice echoes in her head as she treads silently, following the raven through the halls. With a gasp, she slips into the shadows as Edmure, Bracken and Plumm walk past. They see the raven, but not the girl.

It is but a moment of respite, as the lords quickly discover Arya is gone and sound the alarm. Now, the whole castle is awake, and she must stay all the more silent, dodging Lannister and Tully troops alike until, at last, the raven flies free out a window and she escapes into the godswood. But where to go from here?

The weirwood. Her mother said there was one here. Perhaps there she could find an answer. She runs silently through the dark lines of trees until she reaches the place where the heart tree should stand. But all that remains is a cold, lifeless white stump. It is all too much, and she falls to the ground, the raven circling overhead.

"A girl runs back to her old gods?" the Starved Man steps from the shadows of the trees into the moonlight. "You should know better. Only the Many-Faced God holds what you seek."

"No." Arya rises, Needle pointed in front of her.

"Don't worry about your friend, it is not his time to receive the gift. But you… there are only two ways for a girl to pay her debt. Die here, or return. Valar dohaeris. Or valar morghulis."

Arya looks around her, at the dark, foreboding forest, it's branches beckoning her. Then she looks high above, at the raven circling, dancing with the stars and the moon. It seems to watch her with the knowing eyes of an old friend. She looks back to the Starved Man.

"No. I've heard that from another. She didn't live long." Arya leaps forward with Needle. He parries, and the duel begins. She knows how to fight like this man. She can match his moves and predict them. But he can do the same, and has dealt the blows of the Faceless Men for many years. To win, she must be something more. For the Starved Man, this is a sacrifice. But that will only end one way. This duel must be a dance.

Around and around the stump the two circle. Their blades rarely meet as they give and take ground, but Arya never lets her eyes off her foe. Behind his dismal eyes, she imagines the face of the god of death itself.

_Swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Needle slashes across the man's chest, his battered shirt falls away, revealing the grievous extent of his wounds. Only pure commitment has kept him alive.

_Quick as a snake, calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

He kicks out his leg, Arya jumps back to escape the blow, but trips over the stump. She falls on her back as he brings his sword down. Blood from his cut drips onto her face. Needle cannot hold back a greatsword for long, she rolls out of the way through the wet grass.

_Strong as a bear, fierce as a wolverine. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

As she stands, he attacks, more furious than ever, backing her up to the very corner of the woods. Back to the darkness, where she had hidden for so long. It was safe there. But not today. She takes another glance at the stars.

_The man who fears losing has already lost. _

As the man lowers a final blow, Arya drops to her knees and spins on the slick ground, underneath the sword's path. Rising behind him, she stabs Needle through his back.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

He slumps to the ground. To be certain, Arya slits his throat. He will not return again. Breathing heavily the night air, she at last hears the shouts of the castle guard, who have now begun to search the wood. Turning, she watches the raven swoop down out of the sky to the shoulder of its owner, as he steps into the light.

"You are quite the warrior, little wolf," Tytos Blackwood smiles. "But let's not try to take on the whole castle tonight, shall we? I know the way out." Arya nods and follows behind him. There is no going back now. Arya Stark is among the living once more.

* * *

**Dragonstone**

Gold Finch leads an Unsullied patrol down the shores of Dragonstone, when they stumble across an abandoned rowboat. Tracing footprints through the sand, they come across a strange woman in red robes, climbing the path to the fortress. Recognizing her colors, Gold Finch orders her to halt, and inches forward cautiously, spear first. Slowly, the Lady Melisandre turns around.

"I've come too late, haven't I?"

* * *

**Credits**

_Introducing Oliver Jackson-Cohen as Ser Arys Oakheart, Guest Star Robert Sheehan as Ser Osmund Kettleblack_

_Bit of a fair warning, the next chapter is a bit of an epic. It's a "9th episode", though, so I've got quite a bit of game-changing events and battles to cover. Hope you like it and, as always, please leave any thoughts you'd like to share in the reviews!_


	9. Roseroad

**S07E09 Roseroad**

* * *

**Dragonstone**

The Lady Melisandre sits on the terrace, overlooking Aegon's Garden, its once vibrant colors now fully faded by the winter. Tyrion stands at a distance, looking the notorious Red Woman up and down. In person, she doesn't look like much, he thinks. But her reputation precedes her; this is one of the most dangerous women in Westeros. And now she is here, looking for his queen.

"The night is dark, and full of terrors," she whispers.

"Yes, yes, we all know that," Tyrion mutters. "But what I would like to know is what you're doing here, back on Dragonstone?"

"The temples of Essos have proclaimed your queen to be Azor Ahai reborn. Our last hope against the darkness. I came here to see if it was true."

"And your lord didn't see fit to tell you she was already gone?" Tyrion thinks back to the priestess they had recruited to rally support for Daenerys. Could her supposed fulfillment of the prophecy really have spread all the way here?

"I do not question my lord's ways," Melisandre shakes her head, but it is clear she does.

"Well, I'm afraid you couldn't have come at a worse time," Tyrion turns out, peering to the city. "I'd advise you get back on your boat before things get… uncomfortable."

"I think not. The Lord of Light spoke to me here, once. Perhaps this is where my purpose lies."

"Well, alright then. Make yourself at home. When the pirates come, perhaps you can set their sails ablaze or something of the sort."

Tyrion leaves the red woman be, and walks down to the beaches, where he finds Donnell Drumm fighting with Gold Finch and Theon Greyjoy.

"Lord Hand!" Gold Finch salutes. "The drum man tries to leave!"

"I'm sworn to protect Yara Greyjoy!" Donnell yells. "If there's a chance she's still alive, it's my duty to save her!"

Tyrion looks over the tense confrontation. A half-dozen men will make little difference for the woefully undefended island. If they succeed, reclaiming Yara would be a boon for their alliance, restoring his favor with Daenerys. And if they happen to kill Euron Greyjoy in the process…

"Let them go!" Tyrion orders. "I authorize this mission. Take a team of your best men, Donnell, and bring your queen back to us."

* * *

**Riverrun**

The body of the Starved Man lies on the Maester Vyman's table. Ser Harwyn Plumm examines the corpse with his hardened eyes. Also assembled are a highly agitated Jonos Bracken and the deeply nervous Edmure Tully. The castle has been on lockdown ever since Arya and Lord Blackwood disappeared and the body was discovered in the godswood, by the stump of the weirwood torn down by the late Ser Emmon Frey. Laid out on another table are the items recovered, including Bravossi coins and the sack of runes.

"A Faceless Man," Harwyn muses. "Not so impressive like this, is he?"

"Do you believe this is the man who massacred the Freys?" Bracken asks.

"It stands to reason. And yet someone has managed to kill him."

"The traitor Blackwood, I presume."

"Yes, Jonos, your deductive skills are incredible," Harwyn rolls his eyes. "But that brings us to the matter of our missing lord, and the girl. My men and yours already search the countryside. They must not be allowed to escape. Lord Tully, my personal guard will escort you to Raventree Hall. Ensure Tytos' sons do not share in his treason."

"Ser Harwyn," Edmure begs, "I do not wish to leave so soon…"

"The sooner you get on with it, the sooner you can return! Now, as for you, Lord Bracken. Our previous offer of the Twins will be rescinded, of course."

"What? I have been your staunchest ally, from the beginning!"

"And you have also proven the most incompetent. The Vyprens, Erenfords, even the Naylands would be better fit to claim the bridge. Primarily because none of them allowed the only person worth anything in this damned kingdom to slip out of a fully guarded castle!"

* * *

**Somewhere in the Riverlands**

"Are we going to Raventree Hall?" Arya asks. She rides through the forest behind Lord Blackwood, the sun glistening off his red armor. Already, the trees are near barren of leaves.

"I'm afraid not. I cannot put my family further at risk." Suddenly, there is a stirring in the bushes. Arya draws Needle but, as men emerge from hiding, she sees they wear the colors and sigil of House Blackwood. At their head stands Brynden, Tytos' eldest son, the perfect image of his father, but with thick black hair where Tytos' has turned pure silver.

"Ser Harwyn wants your head, father," Brynden warns as Tytos dismounts to embrace his heir. "Lord Tully rides to Raventree to ensure my loyalty."

"Then you're going in the wrong direction, boy," Tytos pats the lad on his back. "I hope you can ride faster than Edmure."

"No! My place is with you! I will not bend the knee to the men who burned our lands!"

"That was not a request, Brynden. You must protect our family, now." The young man's eyes fill with sorrow, but he nods consent as his father climbs back upon his horse.

"Where will you go, father?"

"I will gather what troops are willing to ride north. Winter has come to Westeros and Death rides with it. Our family has prepared for generations, knowing this war would come. Pray to the gods we are worthy of winning it." With that, Lord Blackwood flicks his reigns and gallops away into the forest, Arya following behind him.

* * *

**Castlery Rock**

Grey Worm stands in the Golden Gallery, examining the fabulous tapestries and treasures of House Lannister. The stoic warrior is not easily impressed, but the might of The Rock awes even him. If men like the Lannisters could hold it, never conquered, for millennium, imagine what his Unsullied could do with such a fortress.

He returns his focus to the meeting at hand. Ser Damion Lannister has proven a valuable ally. The old, blond little man has helped him navigate the politics of this land. He stands with his wife Shiera, a plain woman, and her brother, Lord Roland Crakehall. Crakehall is a massive beast of a man, with long black hair and beard striped with grey.

"General Grey Worm, it is an honor to meet you. The stories of the Unsullied have fascinated me since I was a boy."

"We do not disappoint, Lord Crakehall?" Grey Worm still uses the Common Tongue cautiously, but language is another matter which Damion has helped him master.

"You took the Rock!" Crakehall laughs. "Lord knows my ancestors tried and failed enough times."

"Then you bend the knee?"

"Indeed," the brusque lord kneels before the Unsullied general. "To the true queen!"

"To the true queen!" Grey Worm and Damion echo. Shortly later, the three leaders walk the ramparts of the fortress, the waves far below thundering away.

"We receive word that portions of Euron Greyjoy's fleet are razing the Shield Islands, led by Ser Harras Harlaw," Damion reports.

"His mother is a westerner, do you think he could be swayed to our side?" Crakehall asks.

"From what I hear of his savagery, I doubt it. I fear he may turn his ships here, next."

"Let him come. Let Euron Greyjoy, himself, and all his ships come." Grey Worm looks out to sea, feeling pride, perhaps for the first time, in his own potential. "It will be his doom."

* * *

**The Shields**

On the island of Greyshield, a mob of commoners gathers in the harbor plaza as the banners of House Grimm are torn down and burned by the invading Ironborn men. Standing atop a pavilion, their leader, ominous black scythe in hand, stands over the cowering Lord Guthor Grimm.

Ser Harras Harlaw is tall, far taller than most men of the Iron Islands, with a long face. Unlike most Ironborn, he wears the full armor of a knight. His dark blue eyes scan the riotous crowd.

"Men and women of Greyshield! We have captured your lord, trying to flee the island! He would abandon you, leave you to be raped and burned by pirates! But do not fear! We have not come to plunder. We have come to free you!"

Harras smiles as the crowd cheers. "For centuries, House Tyrell sat in a stolen castle, taking your crops and your gold for themselves. By the grace of Queen Cersei Lannister and King Euron Greyjoy, their tyranny is over! The blood of the Greenhand runs in your veins! Go forth, and take back your kingdom!"

With a swift whistle, his scythe cuts through Lord Grimm's neck. Harras tosses the head into the roaring crowd who, torches in hand, follow the Ironborn men in laying waste to the castle of their former lord. Harras nods approvingly. The Iron Islands do not have the men to conquer The Reach, much less all of Westeros. But these people are volatile after years of war and oppression. Strike the right match, he thinks, and we can let them burn themselves. And when the chaos settles, the Kraken will have stretched its tentacles across all of Westeros.

* * *

**Sunspear**

The door to Ser Osmund Kettleblack's room slams open. He snaps awake, along with the two women sharing his bed. As his blurred vision clears, he sees Ser Gerold Dayne standing before him in full armor. The women scatter from the room. Grimacing from the pain in his head, Osmund struggles to get dressed. Gerold's unsettling purple eyes watch his every move, unblinking.

Once in his full Queensguard regalia, white cloak flowing behind him, the hungover knight struggles to keep up with Gerold's long, swift strides towards the Great Hall.

"The hell is going on?" he asks.

"Treason, Ser Osmund," Gerold shoves open the door to the hall. "Treason".

Princess Arianne sits upon the old Martell throne. She has swapped her colorful, revealing outfits for a regal, dark purple gown, her hair elaborately braided. At her right hand stands Ser Arys Oakheart, also in full armor. Ser Rolland Storm is at her left, with her personal guards Ser Joss Hood and Geribald Shells close at hand. Ricasso, the castle's beady-eyed seneschal, stands at attention. Palace guards line the room.

"Gerold! Ser Osmund! You've risen early!" Arianne smiles brightly.

"Today is the day you are to leave for Queen's Landing, Princess," Gerold replies coldly. "We should be preparing your things."

"I will not be going to King's Landing, Gerold," Arianne laughs. Osmund's jaw drops, looking around to room, he soon realizes he is the only person surprised by this development. "Cersei Lannister has no claim to the throne. Dorne does not recognize her authority."

Arianne's confidence beams down from the throne. This can't be right, Osmund thinks. This can't be the flippant girl they had met. This is someone altogether different. He had briefly met the Red Viper during his ill-fated stay in the capital. When he looks up at the throne, those are the eyes he sees staring back.

"Dorne never bent the knee to the Iron Throne. We formed an alliance. As of the overthrow of the Targaryens, that alliance was voided. And with no legitimate ruler at hand, I have seen fit to formally end it."

"And I have urged the houses of The Reach to do the same," Arys declares.

"Arys, you can't…" Osmund protests.

"Oh, but he can. And he has."

"Has he?" Gerold asks. He presents a small bag, and dumps out its contents. A dozen scrolls, signed with the Oakheart seal, clatter to the floor. "Thankfully for the honor of House Oakheart, there are still loyal men in Sunspear." Ricasso nods, approvingly.

Gerold draws his sword and bids Osmund do the same. They approach the throne.

"Stand down, Gerold," Arianne orders.

"You will go to King's Landing and pledge fealty to Queen Cersei," he insists. Ser Joss and Geribald block his path.

"Guards!" Ricasso yells. "Arrest the traitors!" But instead, the guards torn their halberds towards the seneschal.

"Guards!" Arianne mocks the man's command. "Arrest Seneschal Ricasso and my would-be kidnappers. Dorne will never kneel again."

Realizing he has been outplayed, Gerold spins in a circle and throws a dagger across the room, impaling Ricasso directly between the eyes. As chaos breaks out, he sprints away to the nearest exit, cutting down two guards in his escape. Ser Joss gives chase.

Ser Osmund, however, furious at the betrayal, lunges forward. Geribald Shells deflects his sword as Rolland Storm ushers the princess to safety. The Dornish soldier is no match for a knight of the Kingsguard, however, and is quickly cut down. But as the man's body hits the floor, Arys stand behind him, sword drawn.

"Look, we can explain all of this," Osmund pleads with his brother-at-arms. "We can go back, Cersei never needs to know what happened!"

"What makes you think I want to go back?" Arys strikes, a heavy downward blow. The deflection pushes Osmund back down the steps. Arys follows, raining down a flurry of blows that back Osmund across the floor. The remaining guards part to let them pass out into the Court of Columns, the vast waiting space beyond the Great Hall, with its seemingly endless patterned arches.

"I'm tired of being a dog for whoever sits on the Iron Throne!" Arys yells, his breath heavy between swings of his great-sword. "They made me renounce my titles and lands for what? Honor? There is no honor in King's Landing!"

Osmund dodges behind a column. Arys hacks after him and his sword lodges in the hard marble. Osmund kicks him away and charges, swinging wildly at the unarmed knight. He dodges at first, but the sword connects at last with his right shoulder. Arys hits the ground, but pushes himself across the slick stone floor back to the pillar. He retrieves his sword just in time to block the next strike.

"But here? Here I can be a king! All you ever wanted to do was fuck and fight!"

"Oh is that right?" Osmund strikes again at the wounded arm. "And what exactly does the princess have you doing now?"

At that, Arys screams and relaunches the offensive. Sweat pours down Osmund's face. It is so damned hot in this country! Finally, he sees an advantage. Arys' weak arm seems to give out, and Osmund moves for a disabling thrust. But it is a feint. Sword in one hand, Arys slices off Osmund's own right hand at the wrist.

The knight hits the floor, screaming in pain. Arys, shakes his head. The adrenaline fading, the pain starts to creep in. Still, he manages a smile. He never had liked Osmund.

"Look on the bright side," he says. "You always did want to be like Ser Jaime." With that, he deals the killing blow before collapsing from the pain beside his dead comrade, breathing the dry desert air beneath the patterned arches of Dorne.

* * *

**The Roseroad**

Daenerys Targaryen walks through the scorched earth as her Dothraki attempt to reassemble the loot train into something of a working order. Their leader, Jakarro, and Varys are at her side. She comes across a singed but alive prisoner, an enlisted commoner.

"What is your name?" she asks him, as he grovels on his knees.

"Philip, m…m…my queen. Of the Western Hills. I served Lord Brax."

"Then you know the way to Castlery Rock?"

"Y…y…yes my queen."

"Good. You will guide half my men as they take my new treasures there."

"Then where are you headed, my grace?" Varys interjects.

"We continue south, Lord Varys," Daenerys watches him carefully. "Highgarden will be ours. I will bring vengeance for House Tyrell."

At the far end of the road, the Lannister army is encamped less than a days march away from Highgarden. They sit in a field of winter hellebore flowers, at the mouth of a deep valley, where the road follows the Lower Mander river down into a narrow pass, steep forested cliffs on each side. Men are hard at work digging fences and assembling three Scorpion bolts.

Overseeing it all is Ser Jaime Lannister, alongside Bronn, his old friend Jon Bettley, western army commander Ser Kennos of Kayce, Lord Symun Fossoway and Igon Vyrwel, who had just a fortnight ago been the Tyrell's master of arms, before turning on them at Randyll Tarly's command. Lord Tytos Brax had, unsurprisingly, insisted on staying behind to command the defense of the castle itself. Considering his previous encounter with dragons, Jaime had not seen fit to begrudge him.

"Lord Qyburn has given us out best shot at fighting both dragons and Dothraki," he is saying. "But it is up to us to execute those plans well. Lord Fossoway, your men should continue digging through the night. The trenches must be ready."

"Why don't you western men dig?" Symun spits through his rotten teeth. With his long, tangled blonde hair, the boorish man looks to Jaime decidedly un-lordly.

"Because my men are better, Lord Fossoway," Jaime grins. "And they need the rest." Dismissing the advisers, he leaves Symun to stew and surveys the map of the battlefield Ser Jon has drawn. It is good to be beside him again. The two fostered together as boys. Jon had always been the less popular, due to his plain looks and bookish nature, but he had grown into quite the knight, in his blue gambeson, half-cape and beetle brooch.

"The way I see it, all of this only works if the girl comes straight down the road," Bronn muses. "If she just cuts around the pass, we're all dragonbait. And I don't particularly feel like getting roasted trying to prove the old man's theories."

"Well, I'm sure none of us plan on being roasted, Ser Bronn," Jon assures him.

"She's a Targaryen." Jaime points straight ahead down the road. "She won't hide or play games. She wants us to see her coming."

* * *

**King's Landing**

The small counsel is in revolt. Not only is Qyburn gone, but Tycho Nestoris and the Iron Bank delegation have crashed the meeting and the gods only know where in the city Euron is. Cersei sits with Genna by her side, desperately trying to stay composed as the assembled lords yell over each other.

"Princess Arianne Martell has refused to pledge to the throne," Arthur Waters reports.

"Still no word on the location of Arya Stark or Tytos Blackwood," Ser Balon Swann adds.

"My lands are besieged and you do nothing about it!" Ser Steffon Swyft rages.

"The Tarlys are dead!" Ser Wylis Manderly yells. "All burned! Those dragons will be the doom of us all!"

"Damn your useless men," Tycho sneers. "You promised the Bank that gold, and you lost it all in not quite a week! Give me one good reason not to offer my backing to Daenerys Targaryen!"

"Because such treachery would be the end of you!" Genna snaps, silencing the room.

"You dare threaten me?" Tycho is taken aback. "Have you forgotten who I am?"

"You are a man, Nestoris. And all men must die. Isn't that what your Faceless Men say? I wonder, did he take the time to say it to my husband, my sons and every other Frey before he slaughtered them?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"A raven came from Riverrun. A Faceless Man was killed there. We believe he murdered the men of House Frey. And who else could pay the House of Black and White to do such a thing?"

"My dear, I had no idea there ever even was a House Frey. Your petty politics are meaningless to me. If we intended to send an assassin against the Iron Throne, I assure you that neither you nor your niece would still have heads."

With that, the Keyholder exits, his delegation following.

Watching them go, Wylis stammers. "My queen, my father swears his loyalty, but even if we emptied the coffers of White Harbor, we could not pay back this debt."

"Let it be," Cersei rises. "I assure you all, everything is under control." Suddenly, she stumbles. Genna rushes to her side.

"This meeting is dismissed!" she commands, and helps the queen back to her chair as the others leave. Once they are alone, she looks into her niece's eyes. "What is wrong, dear girl?"

"I am the queen, Genna, not your little girl anymore."

"You will always be my little girl, Cersei. That's why I'm here with you now. Trust me, I did not leave Riverrun for the joys of the city. Now tell me what is wrong. You have not been well since Qyburn left."

Cersei finally looks at her, a deep sadness in her eyes. She may be a queen now, Genna thinks, but she truly is still the scared, motherless child she raised so long ago.

"Before he left, he confirmed it. I'm pregnant."

"Jaime's?" Genna already knows the answer.

"I ought to let it be. I am the queen. The lion does not concern itself with the thoughts of sheep."

"Yes, my dear, but you are not the only lion. Your claim is already weak, and there are dragons at the door. You must marry."

"I know."

"Perhaps Lord Brax? I hear talk he prefers the company of men. You could keep each other's secrets." Cersei is visibly disgusted at the thought. Genna will not press further. She still remembers the pain of being herself forced to wed a man she detested. She could not force that on Cersei again. But they had few truly trustworthy allies as is, and but a scarce were unmarried lords, or even suitable heirs of the right age.

"You know there is only one," Cersei states, serious as the grave. Genna knows what she means, and shudders at the thought.

* * *

**The Roseroad**

The Dothraki horde trots down the Roseroad, arriving at the Winterbloom Pass. At the far end of the valley, the opposing army can be seen encamped. Daenerys dismounts Drogon to confer with Jakarro, Malakho and Varys.

"That looks to be near the entire Lannister army, my queen," Varys reports.

"They must be led by fools to meet us here, rather than within Highgarden."

"Ser Jaime is a valiant man, your grace. If he must choose between being burnt hidden behind high walls and being burnt on the battlefield, he will always choose the latter."

"Then he will get his wish," Daenerys turns to the leaders of her Dothraki. "Jakarro, prepare to charge. We will take them head on."

"The hills, Khaleesi," Malakho interjects. "Could they hide a trap?"

Daenerys shakes her head. "There is no manner of trap they could conceive to stop the Dothraki in an open field. It is time our power be known." The old warrior nods consent and mounts. Varys knows better to question further, but his eyes betray his concern. He watches as Jakkaro assembles the Dothraki to charge, Malakho and Kovaro beside him. And then, the battle has begun.

At the front of the Lannister encampments, Jaime peers out across the field of hellebore flowers to the mouth of the valley. They can make out the enemy force on the far end. He hears the thunder of hooves, and the Dothraki begin to disappear down into the valley.

"Ready!" he shouts, mounting his horse. Bronn begins to load his Scorpion Bolt, enveloped into an earthy mound. Soldiers, hidden in the field before them, signal they are ready. And now comes the waiting. Foot soldiers huddle in half-buried trenches. The mounted knights calm their horses. Ser Jon Bettley and Ser Igon Vyrwel flank Jaime. The tension continues to build as the ominous sound of the stampede, mixed with the shrieks of Dothraki warriors, grows louder, signaling their approach – louder and louder, closer and closer.

As if from nowhere, the massive army arises up out of the valley, their noise now deafening. Free of the constraints of the valley, they spread out, abandoning the road to gallop into the field, trampling the flowers beneath them.

"Now!" Jaime waves his hand frantically. The hidden troops see his signal. Ten levels are pulled and suddenly a series of nets and rope, tied into a patchwork rigging across the field, shoots up out of the flowers to entangle the hooves of the leading horses. The entire front line crashes to the ground.

"Archers!" As the Dothraki scramble to avoid the net traps, breaking ranks and scattering, the archers emerge from their trenches and open fire. Jaime smiles as he watches his and Qyburn's careful strategy play out, the horde splits before him, riding out to escape the crippling ropes and lethal arrows. Suddenly, the road is clear. While he cannot see her, he can feel the shock of the dragon queen as she watches the battle.

"Charge!" With this, Jaime leads the cavalry, lance held out in front, in a mad dash down the road and into the valley. The few Dothraki still in their way are eliminated, Jon Bettley dismounts one himself with his lance. As they reach the incline and the valley walls rise up, he sees the dragons in the sky. He is momentarily awestruck, but he cannot let his charge yield. The queen must take his bait.

On the back of Drogon, Daenerys watches in shock and horror as the first charge dissolves into chaos. This is impossible… But it is clearly taking place before her eyes. She should have just burnt them all to begin with. Starting with the Kingslayer himself. As a second wave of Dothraki enter the pass, Dany bids her three dragons fly down ahead of them. This time, she will clear their path.

In the forest, Ser Kennos watches. Sitting behind the controls of a Scorpion, he eyes the troops across the valley from him. They are hidden behind the trees, but a clear shot out of the forest has been cut away. Sentinels on the edge of the cliff signal that the Lannister charge is approaching below them. And then three shadows begin to fall out of the sky.

Daenerys smiles, as she leads her dragons down into the valley. Her brother had longed talked of how he would kill Jaime Lannister. And now that victory would fall to her. The dragons' mouths open as they drop level with the cliffs, ready to rain down hell on the cavalry.

Then, the Scorpions fire.

Daenerys does not hear the weapons, but she does hear her dragons shrieking in pain. Looking up, she sees what looks like a massive arrow piercing Rhaegal's side, he spirals up and away into the sky. Viserion, wing torn, crashes down into the river below, writhing frantically before hobbling back into the air, fleeing the battle with his brother.

The woods, she thinks. Malakho was right. They're in the woods. She can tend to her children later. First she must burn those who hurt them.

Drogon soars into the air before plunging back down towards the valley cliffs.

"Dracarys!" She shouts. The woods erupt in flames at her command. On the valley floor, the Lannnister forces stop to cheer at the successful ambush. But now the second Dothraki charge is upon them. The two forces collide into each other as the cliffs above burn. Jaime successfully dismounts several opponents in the chaos until one huge warrior seizes his lance in passing. The act pulls them both to the ground.

As the battle rages, the two men circle each other until the Dothraki lashes out with his arakh. Jaime blocks it and a furious duel begins. The Dothraki fights like no man Jaime has ever faced before, with seemingly endless strength. But Jaime has more discipline and, seizing an opening, cuts his opponent down.

Back at the trenches, the Dothraki have regrouped, but struggle to reach the men hidden in the earth, who pick them off with arrows and spears. Bronn hunkers down behind the controls of the Scorpion, dodging projectiles. A dragon's roar draws him out of hiding. He looks up to see Drogon, finished burning the forest, headed straight towards him.

This is pointless, Bronn thinks. It sees me. Might as well die fighting. Pulling heavily down on the levers at the last possible moment, the bolt fires. Sure enough, Drogon spins out of the way and Bronn leaps from the Scorpion and into the nearest trench as it bursts into flames. Daenerys nearly loses her grip in the spin, clutching ever tighter to Drogon's spines.

At that moment, the sound of horns echoes from behind them. Over the hills appears the Risley cavalry, largest, fastest and most skilled in the Seven Kingdoms - here at last. Seeing them from atop his horse, Malakho yells for the Dothraki to retreat.

"Silence, old man!" Jakarro shouts him down. The bloodrider turns to face the coming army, only for an arrow to pierce his skull. The retreat begins. Furious at her men's flight, Daenerys turns her attention from the Lannisters in their trenches to the enemy riders. Drogon bears down on the Risley men, scorching many, but far more swiftly dodge the onslaught.

At the head of the charge is Ser Reginald Risley, Heir to Westmarch. Crouched atop his sleek bay steed, bow in hand, not unlike a Dothraki, the knight lets his men pursue the retreating horde. His eyes are on the queen. From high in the air, Daenerys is frantically trying to track hundreds of swift equestrian targets. She does not see the arrow coming. But she certainly feels it. The hit knocks her off Drogon's back and she crashes to the ground amidst the trenches.

Looking up from the dirt, she can barely move. Hooves rush pass, throwing dust and ruined flowers into the air. She can see the eager faces of men climbing up out of the trenches, spears and swords in hand. Having landed on her left side, it feels as if everything is broken; more pain she has ever felt before. She sees Kovarro run to her, cutting his way through several men. He takes several arrows himself, but presses on all the same until he reaches his Khaleesi.

With a scream of anguish, Drogon lands with a heavy thud, his wings sheltering his mother and her defender. This is wrong, she thinks. This is all so horribly wrong.

Bronn watches as some foolish troops attempt to rush the dragon. A score of spears pierce its side as Daenerys is carefully lifted to its back by one of her men, before it flies away, clearly in pain. Bronn can scarcely believe it. He climbs up and out of the trench and examines the field - once beautiful, now smoldering and littered with bodies. Ser Reginald stops his horse in front of him. Maybe it was the shock of being alive, maybe the absurd scale of the destruction, or maybe just the horsed knight's pointy leather hat. But for whatever reason, Bronn begins to laugh.

"I think we won!"

Back in the valley, Jaime and Ser Jon fight side by side, Jaime with _Widow's Wail_, Jon with his spear. He sees the headless body of Igon Vyrwel on the ground. A traitor's fate, he thinks. Suddenly, however, it becomes apparent that the Dothraki are retreating. And behind them flies Drogon. As the last of the fleeing riders pass, Jaime grabs a discarded javelin and turns to face the approaching dragon.

He tries to take aim at the two figures on its back, but as he does, the beast opens its mouth. Before he can throw, Jon tackles him into the river, and the road lights up with fire.

* * *

**King's Landing**

At night, the Queensguard leads Cersei and Genna into Euron's camp, in the ruins of the sept. Genna watches in disgust at the drunken antics of the Ironborn men and the commoners who have moved into the camp and expanded its borders into the city around it. Worse still are the priests, of all manner of dark religions , transforming the fallen statues of the Seven into the images of their own deities. Basilisks fight each other in makeshift pits, cheered on by wild men and women alike. Lord Commander Swann had warned her of this, but it truly defied description.

Twisted, unnatural huts have been constructed to house the men, bizarre structures of twisted branches and broken stone. And at the heart of it all blazes a massive fire, before which reclines Euron Greyjoy himself, on a mockery of the Iron Throne: driftwood, rocks, and skulls from the catacombs, all tied together with thick black rope. His red priest and shadowbinder are close by his side.

"My queen!" he shouts over the cacophony, leaping down from his seat. "It is always my pleasure to honor you with my presence."

The knights cluster tightly around the royal women as he approaches, but Cersei steps away from them and towards Euron. In the light of the fire, the shadows dance across his face. He is not handsome, she thinks, but there is no denying he is a man of power, more power than her brother could ever hope to have.

"You offered me marriage before, Euron Greyjoy," she says. "You brought me gifts. You brought me a fleet. But I yet require one thing of you."

"And what's that?" the pirate king leers.

"My brother. The Targaryen has abandoned Dragonstone. He should be easy enough to capture, for a man of your talents."

"It will be my pleasure." He kneels until the Queensguard has ushered the women well out of earshot, before jumping back up and yelling to his men.

"I'm gonna fuck the queen!" he shouts, grabbing a flask of grog as the camp erupts into an even wilder celebration. But as he turns, the red priest Moqorro stands grim.

"A warning in the flames, my king. The rebels have come for your niece."

A mad dash to the harbor later and Euron crashes into his cabin to find a dozen dead guards and Yara gone. Seizing the rotten goat's head mask, he storms back on deck and looks out towards the forests on the edge of the bay. The shadowbinder, Xuncar, approaches him, holding the carved black cube from the cabin. It shakes madly in his hands.

"Do you wish them dead, my king?"

"Kill the others. But leave my family for me." At that command, Xuncar twists open the cube and two shadows tear out, darker than the blackest night, twisting up and away into the night sky.

In the forest, Donnell Drumm sprints through the brush. His house's stolen blade _Red Rain_ is strapped to his back. He turns back to see Yara, Theon and the rest of his men catching up to him.

"Did you hear something?" he asks. Shouting can be heard softly from a distance.

"They know I'm gone," Yara replies.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Theon asks. "I can't see a thing in here!"

"Of course it's the bloody right way!" Donnell shouts, then quiets himself. A haunting hissing can be heard, rustling through the branches.

"What's that?" Suddenly, a shadow bursts through Donnell's chest. The massive sailor collapses, dead. Horrified, Yara and Theon turn around as the hissing continues and, one by one, the other Ironborn are slain by a force invisible in the darkness.

"What just happened?" Theon stammers as Yara struggles to retrieve _Red Rain _from Donnell's corpse. They hear footsteps approaching, looking up, they see two glowing green eyes. Theon nearly faints as a man with a goat's head steps from the bushes.

"Children…" Euron's voice comes muffled from behind the mask. "No respect for their elders these days."

"Run!" Yara yells. The siblings turn and flee into the pitch-black brush, crashing through branches that lash and cut at their faces and hands. Euron, however, gives pursuit on light feet, seeing clearly through the gem eyes of the charmed mask. The siblings' mad dash ends at the edge of a precipice. Yara shoots her arm out to stop Theon from toppling down into the sea. They turn as Euron steps out of the woods into the moonlight.

Yara holds _Red Rain _out in front of her, hands shaking.

"Come on, let's go home," their uncle's voice rasps from the goat's ruined mouth.

"Go to hell!" Yara charges. Euron draws his cutlasses in a flash. His niece is still badly wounded, her wild swings with the heavy greatsword are easy for him to dodge and parry. Theon can only cower on the edge of the cliff and watch as Euron slices the back of Yara's thigh. As she falls, he kicks her in the face, knocking her out. Nodding proudly, Euron pulls off the mask and turns to his nephew.

In that moment, the ground gives out beneath Theon's feet. He topples back over the precipice, but Euron catches him by his vest just in time.

"Don't think you'll get to die on me so easily, boy. I've got big plans for you."

* * *

**CREDITS**

_Guest Star Andrew Buchan as Ser Harras Harlaw _

_So... I think it's safe to say Dany's first battle did not go well. I feel this was inevitable. With Grey Worm at the Rock, Ellaria and Yara off the table and Tyrion out of favor, she doesn't really have any strategists left. She and the Dothraki together make for the combined military philosophy of "steamroll over the enemy and ask questions later". She's lucky that the Lannister and Reach men were inexperienced with the Scorpions, or else she would certainly have to deal with a dead dragon and not just three seriously wounded ones. Now that they realize the weapon's power, she won't get that lucky again. _

_This was a costly lesson for her, but a necessary one. Once she reunites with the Unsullied and the Western generals, there will be some serious rethinking to do for her military plans. And hopefully she'll start listening to Malakho. _

_I hope this chapter was worthy of the epic tradition of GoT 9th episodes. Lots of big developments. As always, any comments of what you think of them are greatly appreciated!_


	10. The Red and the Black

**S07E10 The Red and The Black**

* * *

**The Silence**

Ser Balon Swann clings tightly to the bow of the massive ship as it cuts across the sea. He has sailed before, but never like this. _The Silence _crashes over massive waves with unbridled force. Were he not always aware of Euron Greyjoy's watchful eyes, he likely would have been sick long ago. But he must save face in the pirate king's presence if he is to maintain his respect. Balon knows he is here to ensure the Ironborn do not slay Tyrion Lannister in their zeal. Cersei wants the Imp alive.

As Dragonstone comes into view, the ship's tongue-less crew loads a series of small catapults with jars of smoking black gas, derived from squid ink. Euron says he learned the trick from sailors in the Shivering Sea. Before he killed them, of course.

In his chambers on the island, Tyrion is awakened by shouts from outside. He looks out the window to see a thick black fog rolling over the shore, just like the one described by Donnell and Theon. He rushes to dress and runs to the war room as fast as his stunted legs can carry him. Gold Finch is already there, scattering the markers and tearing down the banners.

"Burn them!" the Hand shouts. Cersei cannot learn the identities of their allies. He can hear screams from outside, as the Ironborn slaughter the handful of troops left to guard the island. As the sounds of battle approach, and Gold Finch lights the banners ablaze, Tyrion pauses to compose himself, pressing his clothes and instinctively moving to straighten the Hand's pin, no longer on his chest. Grabbing a corkscrew, he opens a bottle of wine.

The doors to the war room slams open. A fearsome beast of a man enters, followed by a knight of the Queensguard. Quite the odd couple, Tyrion smirks. The knight quickly disarms and apprehends Gold Finch. The pirate turns to Tyrion.

"You must be Euron Greyjoy. Want a drink?"

Euron lunges forward with his cutlass, but Balon stops him.

"Alive, my lord. Alive."

"Aye, you're right," Euron bends down to glare chillingly at the dwarf. "It doesn't seem right to beat on such a little man, anyway. Let him duel one of my basilisks. Or maybe a very large rat." The pirate laughs at his own joke and, in that instant, Tyrion plunges the corkscrew into his left eye.

Howling in pain, Euron waves his cutlass blindly, slashing Tyrion's arm before Balon wrestles the blade away.

"Alive!" the Lord Commander shouts, again. Euron calms. Panting, he removes his hand from his bloodied face. His remaining eye turns to Gold Finch, who stands, bound, in the corner.

"Didn't say anything about that one." Seizing a flaming banner from the pile with his bare hands, Euron wraps it around the Unsullied commander's head and slams him to the ground, holding his burning face inches away from Tyrion. The Hand can only helplessly avert his eyes and try not to gag on the stench of burning flesh or hear the muffled screams of his dying friend.

* * *

**Highgarden**

Jaime Lannister sits in the Great Hall, his many wounds tightly bandaged. He thinks back to the battle. How many men they had lost, they could not count. All he knows is that Qyburn's plans and his own strategies had worked. The Dragon Queen has fled. So why does he not feel like a victor? He had hoped, after the battle, that some of the bickering lords and ladies would retreat to their homes to lick their wounds. And yet here they all remain, ready to resume fighting over Highgarden, as if nothing had happened.

Jaime is in the Lord's seat, Lord Brax, Bronn and Ser Jon standing by him. Somehow, someone had managed to rouse a band, incessantly humming away on harps and lyres. The Master Gardner and his daughter, Bronn's newest paramour, scurry about dispensing fresh fruit. Once, Jaime would have thought this perfection. Now, it all just sickens him.

Ser Reginald Risley reclines in the corner, carving a fireplum. He had led his cavalry back to the battle just in time, personally dismounting the wretched girl. Jaime is half-inclined to hand the castle to him, but knows that the Marcher knight is thoroughly disinterested. A man of honor, not like the collection of backstabbers and cutthroats bickering before him.

At last, Jaime has had enough.

"Silence!" he roars. Standing to leave, he gives his decision. "Wartime is not the place for such decisions. The throne will endorse a new Lord of Highgarden when the Dragon Queen lies dead! Until then, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater will serve as castellan. Dismissed!"

The hall erupts into an uproar as Jaime storms out, the other westerners and a shocked Bronn following behind.

"You can't be serious!" Lord Brax sputters. "This castle? Commanded by a common sellsword?"

"I'm right here, ya' cunt," Bronn growls. Brax moves to strike him, but Jaime smacks the Warden of the West with his golden hand.

"What would you prefer, Tytos? I give it to a craven, like you?"

As they leave the stunned lord behind, Bronn protests. "Look, I know I asked for a castle, but…"

"You'll be fine," Jaime assures him. "Just keep the brutes from killing each other until we get finish the war."

"I think it may be easier if I let them," Bronn mutters. Despite his reluctance, Jaime can tell the knight is pleased, even more so when he catches the eye of the gardener's daughter.

"Let's ride," Jaime turns to Jon. "I don't want to spend another minute in these gardens."

Not long after, he and Jon ride their horses through the scorched field, where so many had died to drive off the dragons and Dothraki.

"It's good to fight at your side again, old friend," Jaime smiles. "At least some things never change."

"Jaime… There's something you need to know. A raven came while you were asleep. I didn't want to announce it in there, but… it's Cersei."

"Is something wrong?"

"She's getting married."

* * *

**King's Landing**

Tyrion and Melisandre kneel in chains before the Iron Throne. It has been so long since he stepped foot in this hall, the dwarf thinks. Part of him had hoped to never return, but he always knew he'd be dragged back. He refuses to look at his sister, sneering down from the throne. Euron is at her side, the left of his face and both hands wrapped in bandages. The queen strokes his matted black hair.

"You truly do despise me," she shakes her head. "I'd barely met my daring Master of Ships, and look what you've done to him. Ser Ilyn!" The silent knight steps forward, ready to execute the prisoners.

"No." She stops him. "Ser Gregor." At this, Tyrion looks up. The ground shakes as the massive knight steps haltingly forward. What in gods' names had she done to him?

"My queen!" Even after all these years, Tyrion recognizes that voice. His beloved Aunt Genna. "This is the invader's Hand. He is the most valuable hostage we could claim. We must keep him alive."

This intervention clearly angers Cersei, but even she must concede its truth.

"Take them to the dungeons!" she orders. "Don't be gentle." Two men of the City Watch move to drag them away, but suddenly she remembers something.

"Wait, brother! I want you to hear the news we received from Highgarden. Arthur!"

The young Master of Whisperers stands to read from a scroll. "The Dothraki horde was routed by the forces of Ser Jaime Lannister in battle on the Roseroad. The dragons and their queen fled, grievously wounded, retreating towards Castlery Rock."

"It seems you chose your side poorly, once again," Cersei gloats at the look of despair on her brother's face. "In light of our victory, the Iron Bank has agreed to a final extension of our loan. And all we need to pay it is one dead dragon."

* * *

**The Citadel**

In the observatory, Samwell Tarly peers up at the stars through a massive Far-Eye, the largest in the Seven Kingdoms. He has been studying hard under Archmaester Vaellyn, to forge a copper link in astrology. He is speechless in the sight of the heavens, seen in a way only a handful of men had ever experienced. Alleras sits nearby, poring over dusty old tomes of genealogies.

"Why must these miserable lords have so many damned children!" she shouts, causing Sam to jump, falling from the Far-Eye's pedestal. "I swear I'll murder Peresten if this damned link takes any longer to build!"

"Aren't there other histories to study? I suppose battles and exploration would be more interesting than genealogy."

"This is what Marwyn was working on before he left," Alleras shakes her head. "Only the gods know why." Both acolytes jump to attention as the door swings open and the Seneschal enters, his face as grim as the grave.

"Acolyte Samwell, I'm afraid there has been some bad news. We had waited to confirm it before telling you, but now there is no doubt."

"What's wrong?" Sam asks. Ebrose glances at Alleras. "No, he's fine, just tell me!"

"It's your father. His men were ambushed by the Targaryen girl's army on the Roseroad. He refused to bend the knee."

Tears begin to flow from Sam's eyes. He knows what that means. There was no doubt his father had been a horrid man, and yet…

"What of Dickon?" he whimpers, hoping against the inevitable. Ebrose places a comforting hand on his shoulder, but it cannot lighten this load.

"I'm so sorry, Sam. They're gone. They're both gone."

Outside the gates of the Citadel, beneath the ever-watching eyes of the great sphinxes, Alleras finally catches up with Sam, his face stained with tears.

"Where do you think you're going, Tarly?"

"Anywhere but here!" he half shouts, half sobs. "I don't belong here, I never have! When I met Jon, he told me my father was wrong about me! And what have I proven since then? I left my watch and pledged my House sword to the woman who murdered my family! I'm a craven, an oath-breaker and a failure!"

"No, you're not! You're smarter than half the men in there! And you're my friend!"

"Oh, you don't want that," Sam shakes his head. "Nothing good ever comes of trying to be my friend. You'll be a great maester one day, Alleras, or whoever you are. You won't want to be associated with me. Best forget we ever met." With that, he turns and walks away, disappearing into the night's mist, leaving Alleras behind, staring down at the moist cobblestone, just another stone sphinx, alone at the gates of the Citadel.

* * *

**An Oldtown Tavern**

Pate, the Seneschal's snub-nosed former attendant, sits at a bar, glaring down into an empty mug. His mind works murderous thoughts towards Sam Tarly. The fat, fantasy-chasing fool had taken Pate's honored role, even yet while still a novice. He calls for another ale, but the skeptical barkeep demands payment, of which Pate has none.

"I'll buy the lad's drink," a man speaks. Pate turns, to see the man beside him - plain featured, with stringy brown hair and a hooked nose. He slides over a square iron coin of Braavos. The barkeep eagerly snatches it up, but the hooked-nose man calls him back. "You must be careful, my friend," he smiles. "Many rogues offer false coinage. A wise man always bites his iron to see its truth." The barkeep nods, and fetches Pate his drink.

"Thank you, ser," Pate says as he quickly drinks the ale.

"I see by your robes you are of the Citadel," the man says.

"Yes. I'm the seneschal's steward. Or, at least, I was..."

"So he holds your trust?"

"Indeed. But what good is his trust worth, when he finds a new pet?" Pate grumbles.

"A bright mind like your own should take care, boy," the man places more coins in Pate's palm. "A man needs rest. Take care of yourself." Though reluctant to head back so soon to his barracks, Pate finds there is something trustworthy about this man. And so he leaves, stumbling half-drunk out of the tavern. What does that strange man know, anyway, he thinks again, to tell an acolyte of the Citadel what to do? The coins could surely get him into a brothel...

As he thinks on this, meandering across a bridge, he spins one of the square coins between his fingers. Curious, he bites into it, as the Braavosi had advised. It tastes bitter. He spits, but the taste remains. It is burning now, on his tongue and down his throat. His feet begin to grow numb, and soon he is falling, toppling forward, his mind no longer commanding his body. As he hits the water and his vision fades, he thinks perhaps he sees the hook-nosed man looking down on him. Through this light, it seems the man has no face.

* * *

**Oldtown Harbor**

The next morning, _The Cinnamon Wind_, a stalwart trader's ship, docks for inspection, led personally by Ser Gunthor Hightower himself. The dashing knight has doubled security to crack down on the saboteurs afflicting his father's shipyards. As he sorts through the assembled travelers, he spies a chilling sight – a tall, lean man in tattered white robes and mail. He had only seen such robes once before, but would never forget them – a knight of House Horpe.

Steeling his courage, he approaches the man, only for the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, clothed in simple blue robes, to step out from behind him.

"Leave him be, Ser Argilac," she commands her knight. "I am Missandei of Naath, speaker for Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains, Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne. I have come to speak with the leader of your faith."

At this, Gunthor kneels hastily.

"My apologies, your grace! You should have announced your arrival! I am Ser Gunthor Hightower, Captain of the City Guard. I will escort you to the Sept myself." Missandei steps in line behind their host as they disembark, Argilac and two Unsullied, disguised in peasants' tunics, follow close behind, their wary eyes ever searching the beautiful city for danger. Gunthor feels compelled to describe everything they pass.

"Only the finest of accommodations will be at your disposal, Lady Missandei. I fear that the cold halls of the Blackstone Fortress would be ill-suited for you. Perhaps you would prefer the Glass Gardens…"

He goes on and on, but Missandei is not listening. Instead, she is breathing in the life of the city, so very different from the dirty, violent ones she has lived her life in. She had sailed here in fear. Now, her fist wrapped tight around the Hand's pin Tyrion had given her, it feels like she could stay here forever.

* * *

**Winterfell**

Wrapped in heavy furs, Sansa Stark walks across the yard to bid a final farewell to the departing lords, ladies and their parties. So much has happened, in the past weeks. Plans have been made to deliver supplies for the smallfolk gathering in the Wintertown. Lord Cley Cerwyn pledged his Maester and ravens to Winterfell, as well as Ser Kyle Condon, his chief knight. To ensure peace with the Freefolk, Lady Alys Karstark has agreed to marry one of their leaders. This arrangement was made by Bran, in one of his rare interjections at council, and outraged Lord Glover to no end.

Lord Glover has been nothing but trouble. The years of war have left the North led by boys and women, and Robbett Glover did not see fit to listen to either, seeking to take Lord Manderly's place as ranking lord. But Sansa has known many men like him, and she has ensured he remembers his place, with no small help from those she now bids farewell to - the ladies Lyanna Mormont, Alys Karstark and Barbrey Dustin. As the two young women ride away into the snow, old Lady Dustin pulls Sansa aside.

"You've done well, leading us in these times, my lady." She smiles, further wrinkling the many lines marking her face.

"Thank you, Lady Dustin, but it is my brother who leads us."

"And will he ever return?" Barbrey shakes her head, sadly. "No good ever comes of a Stark going South."

"Jon will return soon," Sansa says, assuring herself as much as the old woman. "Until then, I will speak for the King of the North."

"Indeed you do." She mounts her haggard grey horse. "Perhaps we should have named us a queen?"

Sansa pretends she has not heard the final comment. She just watches as the last of her council rides away. Jon will return, she tells herself. He must. But he is gone. Bran has seemed even more wary of her than usual. And who knows if she can trust Littlefinger to restore the faith of White Harbor? There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. And like it or not, that is her. She must be strong. The North will be ready for whatever comes with the winter.

* * *

**White Harbor**

As the morning dew rests heavily over the city of White Harbor, concealing the plastered white buildings and their sea blue roofs, Lord Petyr Baelish rides down to the docks, guarded by six knights of the Vale. Newcastle can barely be seen, resting formidably on a small island in the harbor, guarding the only true city in the North.

The castle is only accessible by boat or by a cobblestone causeway that is covered and exposed on a daily schedule with the passing of the tides. Littlefinger had arrived the night before, but the tide was high. Thus, he had been forced to wait impatiently in an inn to ride again now, in the wee hours of the morning. His horse treads cautiously down the causeway, slick with puddles, moss and seaweed.

He cannot help but admire the castle. Only a family with southern roots like House Manderly could have constructed such splendor in the gods-forsaken North. But the sooner he accomplishes his purpose here, the sooner he can reclaim Sansa and return to King's Landing.

The elegant guards, with their silver fish-scale mail, green plate and bronze tridents, escort Littlefinger and his entourage into the Merman's Court. The doors swing open to reveal its majesty. Every surface in the hall is painted to form a single brilliant mural.

On the floor beneath their feet, crabs, clams and starfish intermingle with seaweed and the bones of lost sailors. On the walls, ominous sharks, eels and octopods prowl the ruins of sunken ships. High above, tattered nets hang from the ceiling, where the surface of the sea is depicted, the sun rising in the east behind a serene northern galley, while a storm brews in the west. At the front of the court, behind a cushioned throne of white plaster and blue marble, a kraken is locked in battle with a grey leviathan.

And on the throne rests the Lord-Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse himself, Wyman Manderly. His heavy white mustache matches the white fur on his turquoise robes. Along with two score guards, his whole family is in attendance, minus his heir, Wylis, the reluctant Master of Coin.

Littlefinger can deduce the rest. The ladies of Wyman's line certainly take after the men. Lady Nigella and her gooddaughter Leona are as round as their husbands. Wylis claims two daughters – young Wylla, a plump little girl, has dyed her long blonde hair a garish green. Wynafryd, the elder, is also larger than most girls her age, but as of yet has accumulated her weight into an exaggeratedly curvaceous figure. While she cannot be much older than 18, Littlefinger thinks, she has wider hips and more voluptuous breasts than most women he had kept in his employ in the capital.

In shocking contrast are Ser Marlan and his children. The widower knight seems nearly emaciated next to his cousin on the throne, even in court he stays in his armor. His children, while dressed in the same luxurious turquoise cloth as the rest of the family, keep their father's trim figure - Mycah and two diminutive, mousy twins, Melody and Mycroft. Having assessed his surroundings, the Lord of the Vale begins to speak.

"I'm sorry we are late, Lord Manderly, the tides…"

"No lord is ever late, Littlefinger," Wyman chuckles. "All others are merely early."

"Well, then, let us cut straight to the matter of my arrival."

"I suppose you mean to beg me return to Winterfell?"

"Yes! We serve the King in the North!" Little Wylla shouts out, trying to rush the throne Her sister holds her back, covering her mouth and hushing her.

"Pay the girl no mind," Wyman rolls his eyes. "She has grown… agitated in the absence of her father. I am afraid I will have to disappoint you."

"Well, I am afraid you have misjudged me, my lord. It would be foolish to continue to follow Jon Snow. I am here to ensure your loyalty to the Iron Throne and our queen, Cersei Lannister."

At that, Wyman bursts out laughing, uncontrollably, until it turns to a coughing fit. His wife rushes to fetch him a massive flagon to drink from.

"I should have known, you little bastard," he finally wheezes out. Gasping at his language, Leona covers her daughters' ears. "Always Cersei's little pet, even now, with the whole damned Vale at your feet… Aye, but that's not what you want, is it." The fat lord leans forward in his padded seat to look his guest in the eyes. "You want the girl."

"What I want is of no concern. I hear you have a prisoner. Your headsman is ready, I should hope?"

The court breaks, reconvening in the Plaza of Justice. Two terrifying wooden dragons, torn from the hulls of long-wrecked ships, frame the gallows. It has begun to rain as Ser Davos Seaworth, looking far more haggard than usual, is dragged out in chains. Littlefinger inspects the old man.

"It's him." He nods approvingly, and Davos is led up the steps. The children are ushered back indoors as Ser Marlan himself places the noose around the prisoner's neck.

"Ser Davos Seaworth, you stand accused of High Treason against the crown, conspiring with the false kings Jon Snow and Stannis Baratheon, and of participation in witchcraft! Is there anything you wish to say to the lords attendant?"

The rain begins to come down harder as Davos lifts his head to look at the solemn crowd. Streams of water rush down his face, blurring his vision, as if staring out through a waterfall. He thinks of Shireen... of Gendry... of Jon...

"I think I always knew I was never going to make it home again," he says from the gallows. "But still I hoped, somewhere deep inside, to see my wife once more. That's all we have to keep us going, I think. Hope… and love. I found my hope in Jon Snow, the King in the North. I pray you find yours, too, Lord Wyman. For just a short while, I served a king worthy of the title. May you all have such honor one day."

With a crack, the boards beneath his feet give way and Davos Seaworth drops. Littlefinger watches the body hang as the rain begins to pour down, deathly cold. Eventually, only he and Wyman are left in the plaza.

"You killed that maester, didn't you?" the fat man asks, his mustache and thin hair plastered to his face.

"Everything I do is for the throne, my lord."

"I can see that now," Wyman is inches away from his face. His breath reeks of grog and leeches. "You saw what you wanted. Now get the hell out of my city."

* * *

**The Wall**

Jon Snow rides once more into the grounds of Castle Black, Obara Sand behind him. Here he is no longer a king, just another bastard come home. He feels a great burden lift from his shoulders. As they dismount, Lord Commander Eddison Tollett and Tormund Giantsbane run towards them, capturing Jon in a crushing hug.

"You got here just in time, Jon," Edd laughs. "Let's trade places, I'll be the king and you can take care of the army of loons we've got piling up here."

"Army?" Jon asks.

"Here, I'll show you."

Jon is shocked to find the holding cells are overflowing with men, half a ragtag collection of knights – The Brotherhood Without Banners – and half clad in red robes – priests and priestesses of the Lord of Light.

"They've been showing up on the daily," Tormund mutters. "Say their lord has bid them go beyond the wall to find the Night King."

"Excellent!" Jon laughs at his good fortune, but Edd and Tormund stand back, confused.

"By the gods, he's finally gone mad," Edd murmurs as Jon struggles to unlock the cells.

"Hold on, now," Tormund pulls him back. "The fuck do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going beyond the wall," Jon answers bluntly. "I'd appreciate if you came with me."

"You bring the big woman?"

His disappointment at Brienne's absence quickly abated, it is not long before Jon has assembled his party and the tunnel gate rises. Headed out into the frozen waste, Jon Snow rides proudly, his direwolf Ghost running beside him once more. This is home, he thinks. And this is our last chance to save it. He can only pray that he does not lead Tormund, Beric, Obara, the Hound and the score of Wildings, priests and knights who follow him to their doom.

* * *

**Sunspear**

Ser Arys Oakheart lies on an operating table. Maester Myles, a young, red-haired man recently arrived from the Citadel, has dressed his wounds. Milk of the poppy eases the pain, but worse than the wound is the growing realization of the gravity of his actions – treason and the slaying of his sworn brother. All doubts leave his mind as Princess Arianne enters, as beautiful as ever, Ser Rolland Storm close behind.

"My dear knight, look what they've done to you," she sighs, running her soft hands over the chiseled muscles of his bare torso.

"Ser Gerald… Where is he?" Arys asks.

"I'm afraid the Darkstar escaped the castle," Rolland admits. "He slew two more guards and the stable master in his flight."

"I shall bring him to justice myself," Arys pledges, trying to rise but collapsing back down from the pain. Arianne hushes him.

"No, no. Sleep, my love. We have many enemies, now. I need you well."

She leaves him to heal, walking out on the ramparts, her personal protector close behind. The huge warrior has not left her side since the fight.

"How many lords have responded to our summons, Rolland?" she asks.

"Far too few, Princess. Only House Fowler."

"The winter sun burns hot still," she shakes her head. The Fowlers are powerful, but they alone are not enough to hold off the wrath of Cersei, nor Daenerys. "I fear our greatest trial has only begun. We are running out of time."

Retiring to her chambers, she pulls out paper and pen and begins to compose.

_Sarella, dearest cousin. Our hand has been played. Please report soon with your progress. I fear it may be our sole hope in this war. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken – Your cousin, Arianne. _

* * *

**High Heart**

As dusk falls, Arya Stark and Lord Tytos Blackwood ride on through the Riverlands. At last, the tall hill of High Heart appears, stretching up into the sky. But as they near its peak, and the circle of thirty-one weirwood stumps, they realize they are not alone. A crowd of roving Faith Militant have surrounded a tiny, haggard old woman, white hair almost touching the ground.

"Witch!" their leader shouts, beating the woman with her own cane.

"Halt!" Lord Blackwood bellows. He and Arya leap from their horses, swords drawn. "Lay down your arms and leave the woman be!" Instead, the zealots turn their weapons towards the travelers.

"Do not disturb the Father's work," their leader warns.

"You'll need the Warrior to save you if you don't stand down."

At that, one man charges, screaming, only to be killed in an instant. The other five attack, but they are under-trained and over-confident. Blackwood quickly cuts down two before locking blades with the leader. A few swift strokes and the man's head comes to rest at the foot of a weirwood stump. Arya kills another without thinking, and knocks the final man to the ground. She prepares to finish him off, but catches the look of fear in his eyes. For the first time in so long, she hesitates. In that moment, he rolls over the edge of the hill, fleeing into the night.

"Let him go!" the old woman croaks. "He will haunt us no longer."

A short while later, the three figures recline beneath the vast, starry sky, a blazing fire burning bright. Arya cannot remember the last time she felt so at peace. Why, she thinks, is it always among strangers that I feel at home? A flickering blue light passes just out of the corner of her eye. Turning away from the fire, she sees dozens of the lights, dancing about, around and above the hill and down into the forest deep below.

"Will-o'wisps," Tytos whispers to her. "Have you ever seen the likes of them? Beautiful, aren't they? Always just out of reach. Legends hold they're the spirits of the Children of the Forest, still running through the lands that were stolen from them."

"Aye," the old woman finally speaks. "The spirits are restless. The old gods stir, and they will not let me sleep. Oh, how I long to sleep." She peers into Tytos' eyes. "You have been here before, lord of the dead tree. Come again to pry dreams from the Ghost's head?"

"We come here to rest, nothing more," he smiles.

"Are you a ghost?" Arya blurts out.

"Oh no, wolf child. How I wish I was a ghost, to dance through the air, to be with my Jenny again. My Jenny…" Her eyes follow the smoke up into the night sky. "No. I am just an old woman who dreams. Such terrible dreams. I can feel the darkness on you, girl."

Arya freezes, as the witch stares as if right through her. Every hair on her body is standing on end, her blood seems to have stopped cold.

"I dreamt a girl with no name, running from the god of death. Those blue eyes stabbed my soul with a knife of ice. I dreamt of a lost stag who holds a heart in its antlers. A girl with no heart can have no name."

She turns to Tytos. "I dreamt, too, of a raven flying North. A wolf with no legs awaited him. The wolf flew with the raven, but only one flew back south. I dreamt of the dead, walking once more, to a castle of snow. And then I dreamt no more."

Finally, she reaches across the fire and grabs Arya's shoulder. "You cannot run forever, girl. You must face the one who pursues you, and do not look away."

At that, the old woods-witch returns to calm, as if nothing happened. Arya wants to ask her so many questions, but she knows there will be no answers. Tytos will not answer either, he has turned away, staring off towards a star that rests over his family's home.

"Will you sing for me now?" the old woman jabs him back to attention with her cane.

"The same old song?

"Aye. My Jenny's song. Is there any other?"

Arya curls herself into a ball and turns away from the fire, wrapped in Tytos' cloak. She watches the stars, the trees below waving in the wind and the will-o'-wisps dancing between them both. Enjoy this peace while it lasts, she thinks. Tomorrow, Lord Blackwood will ride on his own mission, but she must continue her own. As she fades off to sleep, he begins to sing, soft and sad…

"_High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts ..._"

* * *

**King's Landing**

Ser Jaime Lannister rushes through the crowded streets of the city, Ser Jon close behind. As they near the ruins of the Sept, the crowd becomes impregnable. The two men climb to the rooftops to keep moving until they can reach Euron's camp. The Ironborn and lords of the city watch their queen rise the steps of a makeshift stage, decorated with black sails that seem to wave in an imaginary wind. Jaime forces himself to the front of the crowd, only to be stopped by his aunt Genna.

"Stay put, boy," she restrains him as he desperately tries to storm the stage. "This is the only way. He won't hurt her. I swear it."

She can tell her nephew wants to scream out, to draw his blade and confront the pirate king. But he knows he cannot. Together, they can only watch as the queen, in a long black gown, takes the hands of Euron Greyjoy, in a brilliant gold doublet, each wearing their crowns. A red priest reads vows in a foreign tongue, before placing a candle spinner between the two.

The spinning shapes pass over the faces of the crowd, binding two lives together. They begin to dance. And while Jaime looks away, Genna's eyes stay locked on the stage. So she sees, as the light spins away into the night, Cersei Lannister and Euron Greyjoy dance as one. And the shadows dance with them.

* * *

**The Hightower**

In the Lord's chambers, where ancient fineries have been replaced by all manner of books, maps and arcane artifacts, the dancing shadows in the ruins of the sept can be seen flickering in the flames of a glass candle – tall and twisted obsidian, the ancient sorcerer's tool has not burned in centuries.

But now, it does.

In its bright flame, white turns bright as fresh snow and shadows fall so black they appear as holes in the world, revealing not just Cersei's wedding, but scenes from across all the Seven Kingdoms:

The slightest of snows falls on King's Landing, as a lone blacksmith toils late into the night, sending sparks leaping into the winter air.

Yara and Theon are bound together in Euron's cabin. Chained opposite them are two snarling basilisks. _Red Rain _now hangs from the wall, the king's latest trophy.

Deep in the dungeons of the Red Keep, Tyrion presses his back against the cold stone wall, imagining he can hear the heartbeat of Melisandre, who sits in the opposite cell, praying to hear the voice of her lord one last time.

North of the Wall, Jon's party clusters tightly around a fire, wind howling around them, those clad in red and black eying each other suspiciously.

From the ramparts of Castlery Rock, Damion Lannister watches in awe as three wounded dragons soar falteringly overhead, the Dothraki horde just barely visible in their approach. Drogon lands atop the rock, Daenerys collapsing off his back as Unsullied warriors rush to her aide. Grey Worm searches desperately through the arriving party, but he only finds Varys, who sadly shakes his head. Missandei is not here.

In the Starry Sept, Ser Argilac Horpe watches as Missandei, now clad in the grey robes of a Holy Sister, is instructed in the lighting of candles before the statues of the Seven.

In the small quarters of a Citadel acolyte, Arianne's letter rests open upon a cluttered desk. Its owner glances back as she meticulously wraps tight binding over her chest to conceal her feminine figure. For years, Sarella Sand has been disguised as a young man named Alleras, thanks to Archmaester Marwyn and her uncle, the late Prince Doran. Now Doran is dead and Marwyn missing, taking their secrets with them.

In the streets of Oldtown, Gilly wonders, looking for Sam. She does not see him, hunched over the bar of a tavern, staring into the bottom of a mug.

A small royal vessel sails under the watchful eye of the Three Towers by night. On deck, three figures take in the view: Lyle "Strongboar" Crakehall, the little bird Alys and Qyburn, who breathes in the salty taste of the Whispering Sound. Only the light of the Hightower can be seen from here, but the Hand can see it all in his mind's eye. No matter how far he traveled, this city has always been his home. The fools in the Citadel will pay dearly for taking it from him.

In Winterfell, Bran turns violently in his sleep, haunted still by visions. He is awoken by a raven's screech. The bird rests in his window, all too real. From the ramparts, Sansa looks down at an approaching host of Riverlands soldiers, led by Lord Tytos Blackwood, his red armor glowing in the snow.

All this, Lord Leyton Hightower sees in the glass candle. The old man, still fierce after all these years, shudders and looks away. He strokes his long beard upon his balcony, looking down on the city that is his to protect.

"Can you feel it, Mallora?" he senses the approach of his eldest daughter. The Mad Maid steps into the light, hair tangled and knotted, eyes orange and wild like fire. "The awakening? We must reach the boy. If we are to survive, he must learn to fly. The song of ice and fire has begun."

* * *

_A/N: And that concludes Season 7! I loved introducing White Harbor and High Heart, two great locations I hate we never got to see on the show. If you want to see the shooting location I envisioned for the Manderly's seat of Newcastle (especially their tidal causeway), look up St. Michael's Mount in Cornwall. Super cool location that would have been a great addition to the GoT castles._

_My dream casting for Lord Leyton would have been the great Rutger Hauer, who sadly passed away today. Timothy Dalton would also have been good._

_Thanks so much for reading, I hope you've enjoyed the ride so far! It will probably be a longer break than usual, as I'm still narrowing out some of the plotlines for the next season. Any feedback, your favorite parts or things you'd like to see, are always super helpful in piecing together the upcoming chapters. Especially in regards to length. I've been worried the last two might have been to long, but I don't want to rush the scenes. I'd love to hear what you all think!_


	11. The Glass Candle

**S08E01 The Glass Candle**

* * *

**The Citadel**

Alleras sits, legs crossed, in a dark, windowless chamber. The small, round room is empty, except for a thin stone pedestal. Atop it sits a glass candle. Two feet tall - a twisted mass of dragonglass shaped into a dark, jagged mockery of wax. They say when such candles burn, sorcerers can see and communicate across the known world and look into the minds of men. But the candles have not burned in anyone's memory.

Every maester must stand vigil with the ancient Valyrian artifact the night before their vows, trying to light it. And tonight that tradition falls to Alleras. The disguised acolyte stares in the dim light at the target. She thinks back to the hours she spent with Archmaester Marwyn, before he left for parts unknown. They said he sought Daenerys Targaryen. But now the dragon queen is burning her way across Westeros, and no word comes from the man who had smuggled Alleras into the Citadel all those years ago.

Marwyn always believed the candles would burn again one day. She owes it to him, to do this. Yet the night has passed four hours, and nothing. She tears apart her brain, thinking back to everything the old mage taught her about magic. The candle is obsidian, dragonglass. A Valyrian tool. What did the tomes say was the root of all Valyrian magic?

Fire and blood.

She wants fire. She needs blood. Looking down at her hands, she searches the room for anything that could be used as a knife, before turning back to the candle itself. Stepping cautiously towards it, with shaking hands, she slices her palm along the length of one razer-sharp edge. As her blood spirals down the twisted lines, it begins to glow.

Alleras stumbles back onto the floor, clutching her hand, eyes wide with wonder as the glass candle roars to life in a kaleidoscope of color and shadow. Staring into the flame, she can see the world…

* * *

**Beyond the Wall**

The icy tundra seems to stretch on for an eternity, Jon Snow muses. It feels like a lifetime since his last journey beyond the wall. Even then, he had never ventured this far. In some ways it has been a lifetime, he thinks, shuddering at the reminder of his death and resurrection. And now here he was, named a king, leading twenty-three men and women on a near-blind mission to reach a goal he barely understands.

With him ride Obara Sand, two men of the Watch, Beric Dondarrion and his nine remaining followers, six red priests and Tormund, with his two daughters, Munda and Molda, and Cliff, a tracker, likely the only wildings willing to venture back to the frozen hell they had escaped.

"Bad weather coming in fast!" Cliff calls out. "We'd best take shelter!" The party rushes on until they see a cave in the distance. There they take shelter, but not before massive balls of hail, the likes of which Jon has never seen, has claimed the life of one of the Brotherhood and a horse.

They are caught off guard as a blast of hot air washes over them. The troupe has stumbled onto an underground hot spring. Thrilled to find warmth at last, Obara strips off her clothes and plunges into the steaming waters. The genteel knights are taken aback, but the Wildings and Red Priests and Priestesses quickly follow suit. Jon, however, sits alone with Ghost in a dark corner of the cave, haunted by memories from the past. Tormund takes a seat beside him. He alone knows what is on Jon's mind. Ygritte.

"Remind you of her?" Jon shakes his head and turns away. "Oh, but you're not missing her, are you? You've found someone else. And now you feel guilty. There's no shame in moving on, Snow. What's she like?"

This is clearly not a subject Jon wishes to speak on. "A'ight, how 'bout them red bastards? What d'ya think of 'em?"

"I know they're no good."

"Brought you back, didn't they?"

"Who knows what I have left to pay for that." His eyes look across through the steam to see the hulking form of the High Priest Naan, leader of this band. The stocky man has not joined his followers in the pools. Instead, he sits in shadow, pulling on the red braids in his thick, dark beard, eyes never leaving Jon unwatched.

* * *

**Castlery Rock**

Daenerys Targaryen sits deep within the fortress, in its largest cavern. Her arm is still in a splint and her body badly bruised from her fall at the Roseroad. She can hear the thunder of the waves breaking upon the shore. But her eyes are only on her dragons. Her children have not flown since they arrived here, licking their wounds in this vast cavern within the Rock. Her brother had told her much of a dragon's power, but never of machines that could hurt them. And yet the dragons were not getting better, no matter what the maesters or the healers of the city may try.

Summoned by Varys, Daenerys reluctantly leaves, still limping. She wishes she could pray for a miracle. But there are no gods to pray to. She only has herself and, maybe, these new allies Grey Worm has found for her in the West.

She takes her seat at the head of the Lion's Hall, now lined with Targaryen banners, upon the great stone throne carved out of the walls of the Rock itself. Kovaro and Varys stand beside her, as do Lord Sebaston Farman and his sister, Jeyne Clifton, commanders of the Western fleet. Two dozen Unsullied stand at attention.

At the sound of trumpets, the great doors swing wide and a long parade of soldiers march in. Two parties, one led by Grey Worm, Ser Damion Lannister and Malakho, victorious in battle at the ruins of Castamere; the other by Lord Roland Crakehall, returning from the siege of Cornfield. Together, they have six prisoners, all stripped of their fineries. They are pushed to their knees before the throne.

"Well done, my commanders," she looks down at her defeated foes. "Who have we conquered today?" Damion, now clad in red and black Targaryen armor, steps forward.

"The Lords Banefort, Westerling, and Marbrand. Sers Ben Yarwick and Harys Swyft." He reaches the boy. "And Robert Brax. He was a squire here, and fled to Cornfield after the conquest."

"I see," Daenerys rises. "Lords of the Westerlands. You have been defeated by the armies of your true queen. I do not wish you ill, but you took up arms against me. Bend the knee and I will allow you to take the Black. Refuse? I trust you know the consequences."

"I bend the knee!" Ser Harys yells, eager to ensure his survival. Westerling and Yarwick quickly follow suit. Banefort and Marbrand, however, stand, defiant.

"You can hang all the banners you want," Banefort sneers. "But House Targaryen is dead. We know what happened to your dragons. You'll never sit on the Iron Throne."

At that, Damion pummels the side of his head, but it does not remove the sneer from his face. Daenerys walks forward until she can look the defiant lord in the eyes.

"So be it. Take them away." Grey Worm seizes the two lords and marches them off to the dungeons.

"I will not bend the knee either!" Young Robert Brax scrambles to his feet. "My uncle is the Warden of the West! We do not kneel!"

Kovaro lumbers forward to drag the boy away as well, but Daenerys stops him.

"He is a child," she says, though she was barely older than him when she married Drogo.

"He would be a powerful bargaining tool, my queen," Damion nods. "The remaining lords flock to House Brax for guidance. His father, Ser Flement, is the best commander they have left."

"Very well. See that he is taken well care of," Daenerys turns to Lord Crakehall and the newly arrived strangers as the Unsullied haul away the proud squire, fighting all the way. As they leave, Daenerys dismisses court. She has left her children alone for too long, already.

* * *

**The Citadel**

Alleras stares up at the cold, judging eyes of the archmaesters, chief among them Seneschal Ebrose. No matter how much she swears to have lit the glass candle, they will not believe it.

"Acolyte Alleras," Ebrose declares sternly. "The purpose of the vigil is to teach all maesters a final lesson. Not even the wisest among us can unlock every mystery. If you cannot accept this, than it is clear you are not ready to take your vows."

That is certainly not something Alleras is willing to accept. She storms out in a fury. Never has she been more certain that something is amiss in the Citadel. First Marwyn's disappearance, now this. She needs Sam. He was the only one who ever listened, the only one not too scared to question the archmaesters. But he barely appeared for classes in the past weeks, not since the news came of his family's death. Not even Gilly had seen him more than once or twice. Cursing again, she defiantly throws a stray pebble up at the face of one of the great stone sphinxes guarding the entrance to the Citadel. One way or another, she vows, she'll get to the truth. She lit a glass candle! After that, anything seems possible.

* * *

**Oldtown - The Starry Sept**

In the ancient stronghold of the Faith, Missandei lights candles before the statues of the Seven, just one part of the daily routine she has led since arriving as a guest of the Faith. As always, Ser Argilac Horpe watches her closely from a distance, as does Ser Gunthor Hightower. For a married man, that dashing young knight has proven determined to grow uncomfortably close to her. It only makes her miss Grey Worm more. But she has duties to perform for her queen. And at least now she has Argilac. A mere glance from his sunken eyes makes Gunthor and any other man swiftly step aside.

Finished with the ritual, she returns to see the new High Septon, a short man who looks like he has been taken by giant hands and squashed. Missandei struggles not to laugh whenever they speak. With him are her hosts, Leyla Hightower and her husband, Ser Jon Cupps. The conversation she has interrupted is clearly a dire one.

"My lady," Ser Jon notices her. Once a handsome man, his face was horribly scarred in an accident while studying in the Citadel. "I'm afraid we have grave news. The Hand of Queen Cersei has arrived in the city to rebuke the High Septon's proclamations."

* * *

**The Blackstone Fortress**

Sure enough, across the city, Lord Qyburn sits in the waiting area outside the Blackstone Hall. He scratches at his itchy red and black doublet. He has worn tunics and robes most of his life, such formal attire is deeply unpleasent. His captain, Ser Lyle Crakehall, and young Alys sit beside him. He notices the girl admiring the magnificent architecture.

"How did they build this place, Lord Qyburn?" she asks. Even living her life in the shadow of the Red Keep, she has never seen anything like it.

"No one knows," the old man smiles. "Its secrets are lost to time. And it didn't even need Maegor the Cruel to bury them. They say it was built by Bran the Builder and the Children of the Forest, the same as the Wall."

"I would like to see the Wall, one day."

"So would I, my dear."

A new thought, more exciting still, crosses Alys' mind. "I bet this place is haunted!"

"Oh, I'm sure it is. All manner of ghosts must walk these halls."

At that, Ser Lyle guffaws. "No wonder the Citadel ran you out! Going on about magic and ghosts."

"Oh, but Ser Lyle," Qyburn shakes his head. "Only fools dismiss what they cannot understand. A true madman is one who thinks they can hold the whole of reality in the palm of their hand and tell it what to do."

The huge hall doors swing open, revealing Ser Garth Hightower - a massive man made larger by his heavy, bronzed armor and towering helmet, shaped in the likeness of the Tower itself. He beckons them enter. As the three walk down the slick, smooth stone of the hall, Qyburn feels the eyes of the archmaesters and the septons burning straight through him. This will be no easy task. But by the time he is done, he thinks, grinning defiantly at the disapproving stares, Oldtown will remember who their true queen is.

* * *

**An Oldtown Tavern**

Sam Tarly slouches against the wall, wedged behind a table in the darkest corner of the hazy inn. He calls drunkenly for more ale, but if anyone hears him, no one pays him any heed. His mind sinks back into loathing and self-pity. He drinks to stop the dreams. Sometimes he dreams he is back in the Citadel, with a maester's chain. But the chain holds him down as the halls burn around him. And those are the better dreams. Most nights, he only sees his father and brother's charred corpses, calling down curses upon him from beyond the grave.

His stupor is interrupted when someone slides in across from him. Through foggy eyes he recognizes Pate, the seneschal's old assistant.

"Get out," he slurs, waving the other man away, but Pate does not go.

"I'm not leaving here without you," the acolyte insists. "You know I used to hate you and, to be honest, I still don't like you very much. But you're smart. THe archmaesters think you have a bright future. I guess I just don't want you to end up like me, alright?" Sam shakes his head stubbornly and Pate begins to pull him from the table. The fat lad only collapses on the floor. Out of patience, Pate finds a flagon of water and dumps it out on Sam's face. "Sober up, Tarly. Your friends need you. You want to avenge your family? The best way is by doing this right."

As Pate hauls him to his feet, clarity begins to return to Sam's mind. He dusts off his tunic and straightens his acolyte's collar.

"Let's get you back to the Citadel, alright?" Pate smiles, leading Sam out of the tavern. As they leave, he tosses down a pile of coins to pay the tab. Unnoticed by Sam, or even the distracted waiter collecting the payment, on top of the pile lies the strange Bravossi coin of the Faceless Men.

* * *

**King's Landing**

In the queens chambers, the nervous waitstaff flutter around the dining table, set for a truly tense family dinner. At one end of the table, Lady Genna Lannister and Ser Jaime. At the other, Queen Cersei and her new husband, King Euron. The Ironborn rogue has been washed, his hair combed, his missing left eye covered with a shining black eyepatch and his tattered clothes replaced with a splendid black and gold doublet. But even dressed up as a lord, the new king's wildness remains.

"More mad reports from the Riverlands," Genna muses. "Packs of wolves hunting Frey soldiers, tearing them to shreds. They say Robb Stark's ghost leads them. And another raven from the Wall, insisting that the Army of the Dead will descend upon us any day now." This final report makes Jaime laugh.

"I'd like to see how you laugh when a bloody White Walker turns ye to ice," Euron sneers. This elicits more laughter, until it becomes clear he is serious.

"My king, you don't really believe all this, do you?" Genna asks, incredulously. "If there ever was such a thing as a White Walker, they are long since dead."

"They said that about dragons, too. I wonder how Randyll Tarly felt about getting roasted by a figment of the imagination."

"And yet we shot down those dragons," Cersei enters the conversation. "Our spies tell us they lie crippled beneath the Rock."

"You underestimate them," Euron takes a long drink of wine straight from the pitcher. "Tis a good thing you've got me around."

"And what, pray tell, is your experience with dragons?" Genna asks.

"Oh, you know, little bits here and there. You been the places I been, seen things I seen, you know better than to close off your mind. I even had a dragon egg of my own, once. Least, 'til I got awful drunk in a storm and tossed the damned thing into the ocean." The three Lannisters stare at him as if he's sprouted a horn, but he laughs away into the night.

After the dinner, Jaime tensely walks his aunt back to her room.

"How did you let this happen?" He shouts, livid. She slaps him across the face, sending him stumbling back in shock.

"How did I let this happen? How did I? You're the one who couldn't keep your cock in your pants! I spent the last four years wasting away in the godsforsaken Riverlands, while you and your sister lasted all of a week after Tywin died until you sent the whole realm to shit! I thought I had raised you better than this…"

They have reached the old woman's chambers.

"Good night, aunt Genna." Crestfallen, Jaime turns away. Perhaps that was too harsh, Genna thinks. It was certainly true. But he is still her nephew, and his sister has been taken from him. Marrying Robert, that drunk fool, had been one thing. Euron, however…

"Do not worry," she embraces him. "We cannot send him away. But I know men like him. King Euron Greyjoy will not trouble us for long. He'll disappear over some distant shore, a footnote in history. Until then, I think it will be good for the two of you to spend some time apart."

As she closes the door, Jaime slides to the floor, his back propped against the sturdy wood. He has been apart from Cersei, waging war for so long. And yet now that he has returned, she seems further away than ever. He drifts off to sleep right there in the hall, and dreams of another woman, tall, strong and armored, and oh, so far away.

* * *

**Winterfell**

In the yard, Brienne of Tarth is hard at work even before dawn, training the influx of new recruits, volunteered from the smallfolk in the Winter's Town. Across the lot, she smiles to see Podrick Payne, now capable of training his own assortment of misfit soldiers. But Brienne cannot bask in success, she has her own hands full this morning.

"I knew I'd seen you before," a crooked-nosed young farmer sneers at the young women across from him, both clad in the haphazard, second-hand armor Brienne and Ser Kyle Condon had scrounged together for the recruits. "Only last time, I paid to see yer!"

He laughs, as the woman turns away, embarrassed. Several other men join in the jeering until another woman, tall and strapping with short, coal-black hair, lunges out of the crowd and drops the first man to the ground with a single punch to the face.

"Stop this, now!" Brienne breaks up the brawl. "I don't care who you were before you came here, and neither does the winter! Now you are all soldiers of the Starks, and I expect you to behave like it! Resume your drills!" The recruits return to work, but the first woman shies away. Brienne comes alongside the girl. Through the dirt on her face, she can tell she is beautiful.

"What's your name, girl?"

"Dani," she will not look Brienne in the eye. "And yes, I'm a whore."

"No," Brienne bends down to look her in the eye. "You are a soldier now, Dani. And you can be twice the fighter as that rotten-toothed bastard. You know why?" The girl shakes her head. "Because he thinks he has nothing to prove."

"You there!" Brienne beckons to the tall woman. "Name?"

"Mya Stone. I rode behind the Knights of the Vale."

"Good. I can see you know how to fight. This is Dani. Stick together, and make sure that lot stays in line. They know to be afraid of you now. Use it. If we are to survive the night, we must be one army. Let the old ways die with the summer, and perhaps something better will emerge in the spring."

Within the halls of Winterfell, Lady Sansa Stark walks with Yohn Royce, Petyr Baelish and Lord Tytos Blackwood, freshly arrived from the Riverlands with what remains of those men still loyal to Robb's memory.

"We are grateful for your troops, Lord Blackwood, but I fear we are running out of room to house them. Seeing as some of us failed to regain the faith of House Manderly." She glares at Littlefinger.

"Lady Sansa, I have told you many times that there was nothing I could do. Wyman hung Ser Davos as I watched. He wants the whole North to himself, and you have no place in that picture. He sees you as a threat, which is why…"

"I will not be leaving, Lord Baelish," Sansa rebukes him. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Until the return of our king, I stand in his place."

"And you have done a fine job, my lady," Yohn nods, affirmingly.

"There is always your brother," Littlefinger protests.

"Bran? You expect me to take that seriously? The last we spoke of him, you called him mad and a liar. I half expected you to shove him down the stairs to prove your little theory."

"My lady, I only…"

"You only want what's best for me. I know, Lord Baelish. I do not think you are truly a mockingbird, so you need not continue repeating yourself. I have no further need of your counsel today."

With that, Littlefinger reluctantly bows and departs, Yohn Royce close behind him. Sansa is left alone with Lord Blackwood in his crimson armor.

"About your brother, my lady?"

"Yes, of course. He is right this way. But I fear you will not find him much for conversation." She leads him to Bran's chambers and watches as the noble, silver-haired man steps into the room. Bran sits in his chair, staring out his window, his face blank as ever. Her parents trust in Tytos was well-known. Perhaps he truly could get through to Bran where others had failed. She leaves them be.

"You've come a long way to see me, Tytos Blackwood," Bran speaks without turning from the window. Tytos' raven leaps from its perch on his shoulder and flies to a new seat beside the boy, peering up at him inquisitively.

"Indeed I have," Tytos pulls up a chair, barely registering the catspaw dagger by the bed. "And for good reason. The Night King is marching south, as foretold, hunting for the Three-Eyed Raven, who has flown his roost. But you already know all that, don't you?"

"I do. But how do you?"

"You see this sword?" he pulls his ancestral weapon from its sheath. It is an ancient, bronze blade, covered in cryptic runes, with a weirwood hilt, pommel carved in the shape of a raven's claw. "_Remembrance_. My family has long held dear to the wisdom of the old gods and the Children of the Forest. Their magics flow in our veins. I presume you have met one of us already?"

"Bloodraven?" Bran thinks back to the old man beneath the tree, his mentor, gone far too soon. He had only learned bits and pieces of the former Three-Eyed Raven's past. But what did it matter now?

"Eh! Bloodraven!" the bird echoes.

"Even before he became the Raven, he had great power. The last of the greenseers. He made mistakes, but he did great things for the people of Westeros. And now the time has come for you, Bran Stark, to do greater things still."

"I can't! I don't understand these powers! When I use them for my own ends, terrible things happen! That's how the Night King found me, how the old Raven died! Some things are better left unknown!"

"I take it you've already seen something you wish you hadn't?" Bran looks away. "Indeed. But failure is no excuse to hide from your purpose."

"And what is my purpose!?" Bran shouts, angrily.

"To fly, my boy," Tytos places his hands calmingly on the young man's shoulders. "Now, your sister tells me you've been having dreams…"

"Fly!" croaks the raven, turning to soar out over the yard. "Fly! Fly!"

* * *

**White Harbor**

Cold, salty water drips from the ceiling as Lord Wyman Manderly waddles down a dark and damp corridor, his cousin Ser Marlon lighting the way by torch. The door to a generously spacious cell swings open and a servant lays out a smaller version of the massive dinner the rest of the family is enjoying in the castle far above them. And so the two men sit down across from their prisoner – the haggard, unkempt, thoroughly irritated and supposedly deceased Ser Davos Seaworth.

"It took you long enough," Davos mutters. He still can't fully believe it. He hadn't realized the noose around his neck was a fake until he found himself dropping through the gallows, yet not strangled. He scrapes food onto his plate. Even lamprey pie sounds good to his starving stomach. "You went and made me waste some damned good last words. Doubt I'll have much better to say when I do finally kick off."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something," Wyman takes his own generous helpings. Marlon barely eats.

"So what do you want? Seeing as I'm still alive, I take it you don't truly plan to sell Jon Snow to Cersei?"

"Oh, no, of course not. Last I heard he was headed beyond the Wall. I doubt we'll ever see him again."

"He is your king."

"Eh, I did say that, didn't I? I'm afraid I got a bit excited. The boy doesn't want a throne."

"That's what makes him a good king," Davos argues.

"Robert didn't want to be king and where did that get us? A good kind must have a desire to lead. He must enjoy what he does if he is to be good at it."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want a free North. That is all."

"Led by your son, I suppose?"

"What, Wylis? Oh gods, no. He may be good with money, but that's about it," Wyman laughs, almost forgetting his son's plight. "No. Sansa Stark and my cousin's boy, Marlon. Now there is a pair to rule a kingdom."

Davos looks for a reaction from Marlon, but gets none.

"I have every smith in the city turning your dragonglass to weapons. As soon as my boy is free, we will make our move. As for you, we need more men, and your fame as a negotiator precedes you. Marlon will go with you to Skagos."

"Skagos?"

"Yes. We still trade with them, savages they may be. I suppose we both know a bit of what it's like to be outcasts."

"You must let Sansa know."

"I'm afraid that's not possible. Our maester is a Lannister. He has been spying on me for years, I think. So much for their vows."

"Alright," Davos finally agrees. After all, anything is better than another day in this miserable cell. "But do me one thing in return. Your son is in King's Landing. Have him find a boy name Gendry Waters and send him here."

"A deal," Wyman's meaty fingers seize Davos' hand. They all used to laugh at the Lord-Too-Fat. But now, all the pieces were beginning to fall together.

* * *

**The Blackstone Fortress**

In the Great Hall, Ser Baelor Hightower dines with his family. Lord Leyton had ten children from three wives - A Merryweather, a Myrish merchant and a noblewoman of Lys. Their differences in age, parentage and heritage had always bred division. That and marriages of them own had scattered their paths to the winds. Now, only huge, silent Garth, remains in Baelor and his own family's company. There was, of course, wife number four, Lady Rhea Florent, across from him at the front of the table. Younger than half her husband's children, Baelor has always found her unpleasant. Not that he could blame her. Her husband, his father, had locked himself in the tower days after their wedding. She had not seen him since.

_What a mess we are_, he thinks, retiring early from the table. _Let the young ones have their drinks and merriment_. He feels older than his own father, leaning on his beloved Rhonda's arm as they leave the hall. _And in such troubling times… We cannot hide forever. Are we ready for the wars to come?_

* * *

**The Citadel**

In the ravenry, ancient archmaester Walgrave, his wits long since abandoned him, wonders about, chattering with his birds. He does not even realize he is being watched by three sets of eyes.

"I don't understand why we have to stay here," Strongboar grumbles. "I can't get no sleep with all these damned birds. You're the Hand of the Queen, we could sleep in the bloody Hightower is you asked for it!"

"Exactly," Qyburn hushes him. "We do not know who we can trust in this city. This is the one place I know we will be safe." He leaves his captain to brood and young Alys to play with a curious raven. He looks out the window to the orchard and the weirwood beyond. How many days had he spent on this island, in his youth? Things had been so simple then. He can almost picture himself out there now, beside the dark-skinned young man practicing with his bow…

Unknown she is being watched, Alleras takes her final shot and misses the target.

"Why do you always do that?" a voice calls from behind her. She turns to see Samwell Tarly, his beard freshly trimmed and tunic washed, watching from a distance with Pate. "You always miss your last shot." Ignoring the question, she runs to embrace him.

"I knew you'd be back. Samwell Tarly doesn't hide from a puzzle."

"I may hide from most things, but not that," Sam smiles, for the first time in too long.

"I've made a list of everywhere Marwyn visited before he left. If we start tracing them, I think we can find out what he discovered and what really happened to him."

"Where do we start?"

* * *

**King's Landing**

Arya Stark weaves silently through the streets of the city, a heavy grey cloak pulled down over her face, even though she knows no one here will recognize her. It makes her feel safer, nonetheless. Her time in the city thus far has proven fruitless. The security at the Red Keep is five times stronger than it had been when she left so long ago. The secret entrances she once lurked through are under constant guard. One way or another, she tells herself, she will find her way to finish her list. Once Cersei is dead, perhaps she will finally know peace.

The city has changed so much. It seems wilder and stranger than she remembers. Great machines, looking like giant crossbows, are being built by the dozens upon the walls. The Lannister banners hanging from every rampart are now black, marked by a red beast, half a crowned lion, with the the tentacles of a kraken. Mad crowds roam, proclaiming the names of dark and foreign gods. Arya remembers their names and and images from the House of Black and White, and shudders.

Now she stands in a place she swore she would never return - The Sept of Baelor. Or what is left of it. A horrid end deserving of the site of such a horrid deed. Now, the camp of King Euron Greyjoy has turned its ruins into a mass of idols, sacrificial shrines, rigging and black tents. Arya finds herself in the middle of a vast crowd, before a makeshift stage, black and gold sails for curtains, and the cracked statue of the Maiden, red paint forming tears of blood as she looks down on the players. They are playing out yet another dramatization of the adventures and conquests of the new King.

"One day the mummers will be telling stories about my father." Arya jumps. In such crowds, even she can be snuck up upon. She turns to see a short, thin Ironborn boy of her own age, with spiked hair and a single, bushy eyebrow. On his breast is stitched the sigil of a ship sailing into the sunset. He extends his hand in greeting. "I'm Gyles Farwynd."

Arya cautiously accepts this. "I'm... Jeyne. Jeyne Snow."

"A northerner? Not many of you in the city. Do you have business here?"

"Winter has come. I don't like to starve."

"Can't think of a much better reason then that," Gyles smiles. Arya has no use for small talk. She begins to leave, but stops. Perhaps this boy can be useful to get her close to the Queen.

"Do you know King Euron?"

"Well, I s'ppose it might be a stretch to say I know him. But I see him most every day."

"Do you think I could see him? I've heard so many stories..." Arya struggles to recapture her youth, to try and be that naive little girl she was when last she ran this city's streets. She can't tell if it's working. But it must be, for the boy beckons her to follow him behind the stage. As they move deeper into the camp, however, a surging river of people crashes into them, babbling at the top of their lungs in an eerie foreign tongue. The mob tears Arya away from Gyles. She tries to sidestep out of the crowd, but her path is blocked by the leader of this flock - A dark-eyed priest with ochre skin and goat-horns tattooed on his bald head.

"Cold winds breathe ill omens from the North," the Goat Priest speaks with heavily accented common-speech, peering into Arya's eyes. "You have been blown far little one." The man's followers surround her now, she can feel their breath. "A price must be paid to keep the winter away."

The two men closest to her move to grab her arms. Brandishing Needle, she slashes away at them. Chaos breaks out. Arya is barely even thinking as she fights them off. Several fall to the ground, she does not know if they are slain. Soon the City Watch is rushing to the scene. This is all too much, another plan lost. As the Goat Priest claims protection from Euron for him and his men to avoid arrest, Arya slips away. Perhaps tomorrow she can return and find the Farwynd boy, she thinks as she winds a corner, not watching her own path. And so she crashes into another tall figure fleeing the ruckus at the camp. She looks up, shocked to recognize the face - Gendry Waters

* * *

**Beyond the Wall**

"Good thing you brought those supplies, Snow," Obara mutters, her breath forming a heavy cloud in the frigid air. "There's nothing alive out here but us." The former Sand Snake has just returned from a hunting excursion empty-handed. Jon looks to Cliff, who had accompanied her and Molda.

"Not even tracks, my king. Not tracks of any prey, anyhow."

"What do you mean?"

"I warned Tormund before we left. Noticed it first three days ago. Somethin's stalking us out there. Somethin' big."

"Can your spook's tales!" the Hound calls out from his place resting by a fire nearby. "I've killed far worse than any wild beast this frozen shithole could hide."

"You don't know what you speak of, dog-man," Cliff mutters ominously.

"Oh, what's that you're calling my now, wildling?" Sandor shouts back.

"Calm down Clegane," Beric shakes his head. "Leave him be. We know our Lord will protect us from the beasts of the night."

"I know this will protect me," Sandor waves his sword about in its sheath before wondering off to take a piss. As the others settle back down, Cliff wonders back to the supply sledges, where the two men of the Watch look him over suspiciously. Paying them no heed, he returns a half-rotten orange from a pack, slicing off the spoiled parts with his massive knife.

Then he hears the screams. Looking up over the horizon, he sees three figures sprinting across the tundra towards the encampment – Tormund, Munda and Anguy, the Brotherhood's archer. One member of their party is missing. And soon it is clear why. Crashing into view behind them is the largest bear Cliff has ever seen. Taller than a man and thrice as wide, the massive white beast charges blindly.

Tormund stumbles and falls into the snow, but the bear runs past him, headed straight for the supplies. As it gets closer, Cliff is frozen in terror. It's fur is torn, matted and stained with blood. This is no living beast, he thinks. And no more thoughts will ever cross his mind. A deafening roar echoes across the ice and the avalanche of fur, fangs, tendons and terror attacks.

* * *

**CREDITS**

_Guest Star Cary Elwes as Ser Baelor Hightower_

And so begins Season 8. Going to get lots of Oldtown mysteries, Dany ruling and a true journey beyond the Wall. Hope you enjoy!


	12. Something to Live For

**S08E02 Something to Live For**

* * *

**Lys**

Ser Jorah Mormont stares down at his feet in the court of Tregar Ormollen, reluctant to look up at the broad-shouldered ruler and his own former wife, Lynesse Hightower, who reclines beside him, still as beautiful as ever. Jorah sticks out like a sore thumb, he had never fit in on the beautiful island, its people strong with Valerian blood. Jorah hates it here, every soft white face makes him long for Daenerys, each flash of pale blue eyes reminds him of his brief but happy years with Lynesse.

Humfrey Hightower, however, fits right in. He has dyed his short hair a garish blue, but still bears the same marks of his and Lynesse's mother, a monarch of Lys. And so it is Humfrey that speaks, petitioning Tregar for the purchase of sellsails. Had Jorah come alone, he would likely have been seized as a slave, as his wife's new paramour had once vowed. But House Hightower is much loved in Lys, and so they leave with the support of Sandro Qo, a flamboyant sellsail from the Summer Isles, dressed in bright green feathered robes and commanding a fleet of twenty-five swan-ships.

As the fleet loads, however, Jorah finds himself confronted at the docks by Lynesse.

"Why are you doing this, my old bear?" she asks. "Why not stay here? Tregar's anger towards you has faded. You can know peace in his guard, you can have whatever your heart desires. You do not need to fight this girl's wars for her."

"I've left her for too long already," Jorah pulls away. "I swore to her."

"You love her, don't you?" Lynesse asks as he climbs aboard the ship. He does not reply, but she continues. "She is a queen, Jorah. You will never be with her."

He looks back. "I know."

"Then why?"

"Because I need something to live for. Gold may cut it for you. But not me."

* * *

**Beyond the Wall**

The scene on the tundra is truly bleak as the survivors of the attack slowly regroup. The sledges are destroyed, their supplies scattered in the snow. Blood stains the snow on the ground. Jon Snow has never felt so cold than as he surveys the damage. They have lost three horses, two members of the brotherhood, both the Night's Watch men and Cliff, their wildling navigator. Many others, including Beric and the Hound, bear serious injuries. All in all, their troupe looks thoroughly dismal.

"All right," he orders. "We have to keep moving. Salvage what you can, see if we can get the sledges moving again. We'll have to tend to our wounds on the move." Ghost runs panting to Jon. At least this one's faith in him is unchanged.

The group slowly, reluctantly, steps in line. Even as he helps them in their work, Jon begins to fear that his leadership is faltering. Sometimes even he forgets he is named King. And beyond the wall, what does such a title even mean?

"So much for slaying the beasts, Hound," Obara sneers at Sandor Clegane and Beric. "And you? Did you cheat death six times just to get tossed about like a doll?"

"Do not mock the Lord's champion," Thoros takes offense at her jabs.

"It is no matter, my friend," Beric smiles, then grimaces at the claw-slash across his back. "The Red God cannot be hurt by the jests of a girl."

"Eh," Sandor mutters, spitting out a mass of blood and saliva. "I didn't see the mighty Obara Sand try to kill the beast."

"Indeed you didn't." She turns away. "That's because I'm not an idiot. And I'm faster than the three of you combined. Which means I'll at least outlive the lot of you miserable shits."

* * *

**Sunspear**

In Princess Arianne's bedchambers, Dorne's beautiful ruler yawns, awaking to the light of the new day. Treading softly to her window, where the morning breeze makes the colorful silk curtains dance over her soft, darkly-olive skin, she looks down at the castle below and the sea beyond. This is her castle now, she thinks. And her kingdom. There is no one left to tell her what to do. And yet so many threats remain.

"Hasn't anyone in this kingdom ever considered making windows that close?" Ser Arys Oakheart sighs. Arianne snickers at her lover, wrapped clumsily in the softest of sheets, his blonde hair a tussled mess. "That damned wind will never let me sleep."

"I love the wind," she spins back onto the bed. "It makes me feel free. Like I'm soaring above the world and nothing can bring me down. Besides," she kisses Arys deeply. "I can't have my knight oversleeping, when he should be with me."

The two roll across the round bed, laughing, until a knock sounds at the door. Arianne answers it, not bothering to cover herself. Ser Rolland Storm stands at attention at the door, unfazed by the scene while Arys self-consciously rushes into his clothes.

"Lord Yronwood is at the gates, Princess, with three score men."

"And what is his intent, Rolland?" Concern flashes across Arianne's face.

"It's Darkstar. They've captured him."

* * *

**King's Landing**

Ser Wylis Manderly turns a small raven-scroll between his fat, sausage-like fingers. He looks up to the captain of his guard, Ser Gavin Locke, a broad-shouldered man, clad in silver fish-scale Manderly armor.

"Do you think you can find this Gendry?" Wylis asks.

"I will do my best, ser."

"Of that I have no doubt," Wylis shakes his head. "Let us pray that we will all be safe at home soon enough. Until then, I have a meeting to endure." After saying a silent prayer before a small shrine to the Seven, the fat knight waddles his way to the Small Counsel chambers. All others are already there, including a frightening looking man with a scarred face and horribly broken nose. He wears rough-hewn red garments with white highlights, and bares the sigil of a dagger plunged into a heart. Wylis does not recognize this man or his House, and shudders as he takes his seat between the new guest and King Euron Greyjoy.

"For those of us who are late," Genna Lannister glares at Wylis, "With Cornfield fallen, Ser Steffon has vacated his seat to fight the traitors in the West. I have been named Master of Law in his place. In light of Randyll Tarly's death, Lord Harlan Dondarrion, Paramount of the Stormlands and Warden of the East will serve as Master of War. As he is unable to attend, his commander, Ser Henry Staedman, will serve in his place."

"Excuse me," a whining voice calls from the corner of the room. All eyes turn to Lord Tytos Brax. "I was told I would have a seat on the counsel."

"You are the Warden of the West, Tytos," Cersei says coldly. "You are welcome to a seat at the table on the worth of your title alone."

"Provided you can find one," Euron quips. "I'm sure there's one around here somewhere." Tytos slinks out of the chamber, ignoring the barely suppressed sniggers from the others around the table.

"On to new matters," Cersei resumes the meeting. "What word do we have from Lord Qyburn in Oldtown?"

"House Hightower has proven reluctant to listen to reason," Arthur Waters reports.

"Then my fleet will take care of them, just like I took care of the Shields," Euron shrugs. "Problem solved."

"Like the Shields?" Jaime blurts out. "You mean riots in the street, smallfolk burning castles to the ground and massacring entire houses? We all know what your Ser Harras has been doing in The Reach, Euron. Typical Ironborn savagery, nothing more."

"That's King Euron, boy!" the pirate slams his fist on the table, his one eye burning with fury. "Jaime Lannister, lord and warden of nothing! Show some respect before I give your seat to Tytos!" Both men stand, ready to fight right there in the chamber. Wylis frantically backs away.

"That is enough!" Cersei slaps Jaime across the face. Euron grins at that, until his new wife slaps him as well. They both silently sit back down, fuming, as the rest of the counsel watches uncomfortably.

"The fact remains that the Iron Fleet's behavior is unacceptable." Genna restores order. Cersei nods in agreement. "We cannot afford such chaos in times of peace, much less now."

"Euron," Cersei speaks in a soothing voice, stroking her king's hand to calm him. "Surely you can understand this?" He nods. "Ser Harras is headed to The Arbor. Sail there to meet him, and put an end to this madness."

After the meeting, three Lannisters and one Greyjoy walk away together, Jaime and Euron keeping as much distance between themselves as possible.

"I am losing patience with Lord Dondarrion," Cersei grumbles. "I name him Master of War, and he sends a stooge to fill his seat."

"He is gathering his bannermen to guard against the Dornish traitors," Jaime assures her.

"Like hell he is," Genna mutters. "That arrogant cock is rebuilding Summerhall."

"Summerhall?" Euron is suddenly interested at the mention of the doomed palace of legends. He had always been fascinated by the burning of the old Targaryen summer palace.

"Yes, he wants it as his new holdfast," Genna explains. "A seat worthy of a greathouse."

Cersei shakes her head. "Let him know that if he wishes to keep it, he had best begin to show me more respect."

* * *

**Summerhall**

Cold, heavy drops of water pour down on the ruins of Summerhall. But the charred skeleton of the old palace is alive once more, as an army of workers toils away even through the storm. Two figures ride horseback through the mud, watching the men with eyes colder than the winter rain. One, a massive knight, nearly seven feet tall, wears the torn white robes of House Horpe – its heir, Ser Balerion.

He follows his liege, Lord Harlan Dondarrion himself. Water rolls off the slick, black leather cape draped across his back, covering a padded black garment, embroidered with a purple lightning bolt - the only color on his person. He is a man built hard and stern, with a hawk-like nose and a sharp jawline to match. He dismounts, avoiding dirty puddles as he approaches his Maester, Otto, a haggard man whose teeth chatter constantly, his plain robes are soaked through.

"You have fallen behind schedule again, Otto," Harlan states. "You've barely cleared the rubble, much less begun the real work. And winter is already here. Soon this rain will be snow."

"W..w..we work as fast as we can, my lord," Otto shivers with every step.

"No, you don't. The men could be working night shifts, as I have often pointed out. Yet you refuse."

"The men will not stay on the grounds p..p..past dusk, my lord, for fear of spirits."

"You are a maester, Otto!" Harlan rebukes him harshly. "Your job is to dispel such superstitions. Unless your wits already leave you?"

Otto's eyes glance over to the towering Ser Balerion, even taller upon his horse. "O..o..of course not, my lord. I will speak to the men."

"Good," Harlan turns back to his horse, before pausing at the sound of the maester's quivering teeth. "And for the grace of the Mother, put on a coat! You can't build if you're dead." As the lord rides away, Otto shakes his head. Days like these, it seems death would be preferable than slaving away in this gods-forsaken ruin. At least the dead legends of Summerhall couldn't feel the cold.

* * *

**Castlery Rock**

Varys walks the halls of the Rock alone. The past few weeks have been an endless struggle for him, as he attempts to reconnect with his network of "little birds". But they answer to a new master now, and he could not afford risking betrayal by them. After years of knowing all that happened in this kingdom, the eunuch feels blinded. In the Golden Gallery, he finds Ser Damion Lannister gazing up at the Valyrian blade hanging at the head of the hall.

"The fabled Brightroar?" he asks.

"Oh, no," Damion chuckles. "That blade was lost centuries ago, when we Lannisters were still kings. Vanished on a foolhardy voyage to Valyria. Who knows what poor house this sword was robbed from. When I was a boy, Tywin showed it to me, just to remind me that I was of the wrong line and would never wield it. That was the last day I stepped foot in the Rock, until I was named castellan."

"And you handed it over to our queen."

"Indeed I did. Perhaps Tywin was right about me. I sure hope he can see us from whatever hell he's in. He's sure to be furious."

"Ser Damion!" a voice shouts. Both men turn to see flustered Maester Creylen approaching. "Will you speak to your queen?"

"Our queen, Creylen." Damion corrects him. "Of what matter is your concern?"

"She has barred me and my assistants from tending to her dragons. She is making mad accusations about us poisoning them, as she believes the maesters poisoned the last dragons."

"And did they?" Varys asks.

"Did they what?"

"Did the maesters poison the last dragons?" Creylen does not deem this worthy of an answer and storms away in a huff.

Varys and Damion find Queen Daenerys in the Stone Garden, with two other women. One, Breanna Lantell, is a leading trader in Lannisport. The other, Varys shudders to see, is a Red Priestess, clad in their robes, head shaved bald, with orange flames tattooed on her ebony face. She immediately locks eyes with Varys.

"Who is this?" he asks.

"I am Zatarra, priestess of the Lord of Light. I believe I may be of service."

"In what way?" Varys approaches the woman, until Daenerys blocks his path.

"She will make my dragons fly again."

* * *

**Karhold**

A heavy snow falls down on the Karstarks' godswood, as a small crowd gathers around the weirwood. She watches as haggard old Arnolf Karstark escorts Alys, his nephew's heir, to where Sigorn of the Free Folk waits beneath the heart tree's red leaves. Sansa smiles at the sight of the girl's perfect white dress, says her vows and kneels in prayer. She cannot escape the memory of when she once stood in Alys' place, and Ramsay in Sigorn's. But this, this is how it should be, she thinks. So long as she lives as a Lady of Winterfell, no girl will endure again what she did.

After the wedding the young couple thanks her for her presence. Alys is dwarfed by her new husband, built like an aurochs. Their eyes burn with passion for each other. Before she departs with Brienne and her guard, Sansa speaks with Cregan Karstark. Traditionally, the men of the far north leave to live in the mountains during the winter, so as not to burden their families. Instead, Sansa instructs them to go to the Wall. More men to the Watch's numbers, she thinks. What Jon would want. Whether or not he still lives, she must continue his work

* * *

**Winterfell**

All these events at Karhold are watched from afar by Bran Stark, sitting in his wheelchair beneath the Winterfell weirwood. As his mind returns to his body, Lord Tytos Blackwood nods in approval, his raven-feather cloak cinched tightly around his neck in the cold.

"You see what happens when you share your gift, Bran?"

Bran shakes his head. "When I saw Alys, I saw Sigorn. I knew that was the right choice. But how can I make that choice for myself?"

"I don't know," Tytos sighs.

"Then what good is this? You say you know the legends of the Three-Eyed Raven! What good are they if they don't tell me what to do!"

"You have to learn this yourself, Bran."

"Meera. Meera would know. Her and Jojen. And their father. Where is Lord Howland Reed? Why are you here, and not him? You would have crossed his lands to get here!"

"You can find those answers, Bran, if you truly want to know."

Detirmined, Bran's eyes roll back into his head. In his mind, they open again and he stands knee deep in the marsh-water of the Neck. Lizard-lions prowl not far from his feet. Before him, emerging from the haze, can be seen Greywater Watch, the floating wooden stronghold of House Reed. He wades towards it.

Inside, he finds Lord Blackwood engaged in a heated argument with a short, grungy looking man with oily hair and narrow eyes. His heart skips when he sees Meera sitting quietly in the corner of the room, a simple study overflowing with books, scrolls and arcane artifacts. The little man must be Howland Reed.

"You must bring the boy here!" he is yelling. "His training is incomplete, he cannot face the Night King! He's been marked. The entire army of the dead is coming for him."

"The Wall still stands between him and the Walkers."

"And for how much longer? The signs are clear, the kraken and the dragon rise!"

"And what if we move him south? We would be handing all the North over to the Night King!"

"The only thing that matters is the Raven! You of all people should know that! And now his power is trapped in a foolish boy."

"That boy is a Stark!" Tytos pounds his fist on the table.

"I knew Ned Stark. That child is not his father. Is he Meera?"

The girl quietly shakes her head. "He's not ready," she whispers. But to Bran, those three words from Meera are deafening, shaking him out of his trance. He looks up at Tytos.

"I'm not running away," he declares. "These are still my people and my father's people. I will not let them die."

"Good," Tytos smiles. "Now, are you ready to learn?"

* * *

**King's Landing**

Within a massive tent erected at the heart of Euron's camp, Theon and Yara are chained in an iron cage, moved here to be kept under more constant guard, now that the new king has moved into the Red Keep. For once, they are alone, but the ruckus of the madness outside is still near-deafening. It seems the camp never sleeps. And so neither can the Greyjoy siblings.

"I don't think I ever said thank you," Yara breaks the long silence.

"For what?" Theon has barely spoken in the weeks since their capture, wallowing in self-loathing and waiting to die. "Winning you five minutes of freedom? Getting Donnell and the others killed?"

"You came for me. That's what matters. That's what the old you would have done."

"The old me is dead."

Yara shakes her head. She struggles to reach her brother's hand, but he is just out of reach. Instead, she looks him square in the eyes.

"We will get out of this, Theon. And when we do, you have to go home."

"To Pyke?"

"To Winterfell."

Theon recoils. "I can't go back there!"

"The Starks raised you, they made you your best. You have always been more wolf than kraken. If you want to restore your honor, there is only one place for you."

"And what will you do?" Theon changes the subject.

"I will do what I must." Yara closes her eyes, and imagines the throne denied her, and all the men who must die before she can claim it.

Far on the other side of the city, Gendry watches as Arya sharpens Needle, using the tools of the shop. For years he had prayed the girl was still alive. Now, here she was, but she appears a completely different person. There was a darkness, a coldness within her. It was as if they barely knew each other.

"A good thing you pulled her out of those camps when you did," Tobho Mott mutters, taking a rare break from his work for a drink of water. "That camp is no place for yourself, much less a girl, no matter how good she is with that little sword. I know the King's priests from across the sea. Dark men who serve dark gods. The Black Goat, The Church of Starry Wisdom… they'll bring doom to this city, mark my words."

Shouts come from outside the shop and Tobho goes to the yard to look. He startles to see an ensemble of knights, in the silver and green shell-mail armor and cloaks of the Manderly Guard. Their leaders dismounts.

"Are you Tobho Mott?" he asks. The old blacksmith subtley motions for Gendry to hide.

"Aye, that's m'name."

"Ser Gavin Locke," the knight extends his hand, but Tobho does not return the greeting.

"Ser Gavin, look!" One of the knights points. All look up to see Arya fleeing over the rooftops of Flea Bottom.

"Don't just stand there!" Ser Gavin yells.

Arya slips down from the roofs into an ally and keeps running. The realization that she is abandoning Gendry again so soon doesn't even cross her mind. She had barely registered their reunion. All that matters is the list. But as she cuts through a shop, she crashes into five men of the City Watch. They turn, drawing their weapons at the sight of Needle. Arya prepares for a fight when she hears a shout from behind her.

"Stand down!" Ser Gavin calls out. "The girl is with us." The guards and Arya reluctantly stand down. Gavin examines Arya's features. "Are you a northerner, girl?" She nods, cautiously. "Then I recommend you come with me before you find yourself in any more trouble."

* * *

**Skagos**

A small Manderly vessel, its hull coated with the same white plaster that seals the buildings of White Harbor, lies at anchor in a hidden inlet along the rocky island shore. There are only a few yards of boulders and sand before the densest forest Davos Seaworth has ever seen takes root, blocking all light from penetrating. He sits clustered around a small fire. Ser Bartimus, a one-eyed, one-legged old knight is cracking open the last remains of their dinner, freshly caught crabs, passing one leg to Mycah Manderly and offering another to Davos.

"No, thank you," he declines.

"Wine?" Mycah offers a flask.

"I'm fine."

"Well, I've got to go piss," Mycah tosses the flask to Davos anyway, heading off to the edge of the forest. "Maybe I'll see a unicorn."

Once he is out of earshot, Ser Bartimus turns his head down to the beach, where the silhouette of Ser Marlon can barely be seen.

"I can't believe he let the boy come," the old knights drinks from his own grog, having no taste for his lords' finer beverages.

"Oh?" Davos questions. "He certainly seems capable…"

"Oh, Mycah's one of our best men. But his old man… Poor bastard thinks he's cursed. Legends say his father killed a merman, but whatever happened, he's lost everything he ever loved. Parents, siblings, wife… all he has left is his kids. And he's terrified that one day the Drowned God will sweep them away, too."

"Aye. I've seen my share of grief, as well."

"Ain't we all?" Bartimus tosses the crab shell into the flames. "Lost an arm and a leg. Don't think I'm cursed, though. World's just a damn ugly place, is all."

After staring into the dying fire for far too long, Davos turns. He walks back down to the beach, finding Marlon sitting in the sand, just far enough away so that the grasping fingers of the softly crashing waves run out at the bottoms of his feet.

"The night is dark, and full of terrors," Davos says, breaking the silence.

"Aye. So I've heard. I didn't take you for a Red Man," Marlon mutters.

"Oh, I'm not, I can assure you of that. I don't much care for their god, or their prophecies. Or their damned bloody sayings."

"You certainly don't care for them much at all, do you?"

"No!" Davos answers, perhaps too harshly. "They're wrong, anyway."

"What do you mean?

"The night is dark and full of terrors. Now, that may very well be true. But," he points to the vast, clear sky above them, "the night is also full of stars. If you spend all your time looking for the terrors instead of looking up, you'll never find your way out of it."

"I like that," Marlon smiles. "Who says it?"

"House Seaworth, that's who," Davos replies with a chuckle. After a moment, both men begin to laugh heartily, both for the first time in far too long.

* * *

**Oldtown**

Night has fallen over the peaceful cobblestone streets and placid canals of Oldtown. The city has gone to sleep, leaving only the smell of flowers and the soft glow of the moon, mixed with the warm orange light of the Hightower.

Missandei walks through the vast halls of the Starry Sept with the High Septon, discussing the upcoming celebration the Faith is hosting for the day of Our Father's Feast, the largest annual holiday for the Faith, believed the most blessed day to make judgements.

"Have you heard from your queen?" the Septon asks. "Has she accepted our invitation?"

"Not yet. But I am certain she will come. She will like it here. She deserves peace."

"Good." They have reached the great doors of the Sept, swung open for them by the Warrior's Sons, on duty in their crystal-laden armor. The Septon indicates one of their number, a particularly noble looking knight. "When our champion, Ser Axyll, wins the tournament with the Father's grace, we will crown Daenerys Targaryen the Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men."

"As is her right." Missandei bids good night and joins Ser Argilac Horpe on his white horse, already waiting for her outside. They ride back to the Glass Gardens together. The seat of House Cupps, long since enveloped by the expanding city, is a maze of outdoor and indoor gardens. Her hosts have chosen wisely by housing her here, she thinks, as she takes a final stroll through one of the glass gardens before retiring to bed. She peers at a colony of butterflies, entombed in their cocoons. Yes, Daenerys will like it here. When the people of the city see her for who she truly is, they will welcome her as their queen. And then the peace of Oldtown can spread to all of Westeros.

In the home of Garth Hightower, however, no rest will be had tonight. Alleras, Sam and Gilly pore over all of the records of Archmaester Marwyn's final days at the Citadel. Alleras has finally revealed her true identity to her friends – Sarella Sand, daughter of Oberyn Martell. Marwyn and the late Prince Doran had uncovered a secret that could change all seven kingdoms. But with one dead and the other missing, Sarella's cousin Arianne tasked her with finding the truth.

"Marwyn was one of the only men who visited Lord Leyton in his tower," she explains. "Sam, your House is Lord Paramount of the Reach. By law, you can demand an audience with him. He also visited the army camps in the hills. I'll go there. Gilly, do you think you can find the ironworks?"

"What's in the ironworks?" They turn, startled, to see Ser Gunthor, having silently entered the room.

"We're trying to solve a mystery," Gilly announces, though Sam and Alleras try to hide their work. She looks at them, confused. "We can trust him!"

"Of course you can," Gunthor flashes his winning smile. "I command the Oldtown Guard. If anything is wrong in the city, I ought to know it." Sam and Alleras exchange a glance. What choice do they have? And so, they begin the long story all over again.

* * *

**Beyond the Wall**

A massive fire blazes on the tundra, encircled by High Priest Naan and his followers, calling upon their god to show them the way. Jon and Tormund watch from the distance. The blaze was built against their wishes, for fear it would draw the bear back to them.

"I don't like this," Jon mutters. "The red priests have never been here before. I have the map. I know where we're going and I know what we're looking for. We can see the mountains from here, and the river will be beyond them."

"Yeah, your cat's scratch map you copied down from a bunch of damned cave drawings?" the Hound scoffs. "Sorry, if I'm not convinced."

"Jon Snow is the King of the North!" Tormund leaps up to shout, ready to fight anyone who disagrees. "His map is the only way I plan on following!" Pulling his friend aside, he whispers in his ear. "You are sure this map of yours is right, ain't you? 'Cause I really don't want me and my daughters to die out here."

Jon stands silently for a moment. Is he really so sure? Can he trust the lives of his friends on this strange urge to follow a set of ancient paintings? He has been wrong before. And no matter what else Melisandre had done, he knew her order holds true power. Turning back to the group, he sees all eyes are on him.

"Let us see what message the Lord of Light has for us."

They wait for hours, as the night grows darker and colder. The red priests are standing closer than any man ought to stand to such a fire, Jon thinks. The rest of the party stands at a distance, none but Beric willing to watch the ceremonies.

"Do you see anything yet?" the lightning lord calls out over the roaring flames.

"My vision is clouded here," Naan muses, the crackling sparks making the light dance across his face. "The dark magics of this land interfere with the flames of R'hllor. They blind me, as if we are on an island, with nothing else in the world but what lies within reach of our fingertips."

"What about you, Thoros?" Beric turns to his friend.

"If the high priest cannot see the answer you seek, your drunken fool surely will not!" one of the priestesses takes offense.

"Leave him be, Eres," Naan silences his follower. "We are all equal in our Lord's eyes. Thoros is our brother." As the priests and Beric bicker, however, Jon, feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He turns to peer into the flame himself. This god had seen fit to raise him from the dead. Perhaps it would speak to him now. Instead he only sees the fire, all-consuming, burning away the snow he calls home. Then, through the blaze, he sees the bear. But as it grows larger, he realizes it is no vision.

With an unholy shriek, the monster lunges through the fire. Bursts of flame burning on its pelt, it lunges forward, it's massive jaws biting off the head of the nearest priest, throwing the corpse to the ground. Seven fiery swords ignite, with Beric charging the creature. It bats him away as easily as before. As the bear leans over him, blood and thick, sickly black saliva drips down onto his face. He stabs his sword upwards, to no effect, until a spear slams into its left eye.

Roaring in pain, the beast rears up on its hind legs allowing Beric's savior, Obara, to drag him to safety. Thoros and Eres plunge burning swords into its sides and it turns to run. It will not escape this time, Jon thinks. He places himself firmly in its path, grasping _Longclaw_ tighter than he ever has before. He might as well be a sapling in the path of a hurricane, nearly blacking out as the burning undead terror rams him to the ground. _Longclaw_ skids across the ice and Jon screams in pain, feeling fangs pierce his right leg and hold on, dragging him away into the night.

Jon scrambles about, trying to protect his head and cling to any passing root or rock he can find. At last, it stops. He shudders as his leg is released. Rolling onto his back, he sees the stars and the green lights of the Northern Shine on the horizon. And then there is the bear. Away from the fire, it is but a pitch black silhouette in the moonlit night. His vision begins to fade from the pain. In the fevered blackness that follows, he hears sounds, impossible sounds. The echo of a war horn. The howls and snarls of Ghost. And the roars of the bear. Then, silence.

The next thing he remembers is the warmth of Ghost's tongue, waking him. Opening his blurred eyes, he swears he must be dreaming. For standing above him, looking down with cold but loving eyes, one hand playfully wrapped in the direwolf''s fur, is a face he has long known he would never see again – his uncle, Benjen Stark.

* * *

**Credits**

Special Guest Star Robert Carlyle as Howland Reed

Special Guest Star Rufus Sewell as Harlan Dondarrion


	13. Coldhands

**S08E03 Coldhands**

* * *

**King's Landing**

Arya Stark is running. She cannot see where or what from, but the words of the Ghost of High Heart echo in her head. She knows who is behind her. The god of death.

_A girl with no heart can have no name._

Now the ground below her turns to water and she begins to sink into a cold, icy pool. As she floats down, down in the darkness, she sees above her the bodies of all her family and friends – Father and Mother, Robb, Sansa, Jon, Syrio, Mycah… even the Hound is there. One by one, their eyes open and turn towards her, each an unearthly, haunting shade of blue.

She screams, but there is no sound. Water fills her lungs as she claws at her face until it falls off and she sees it, lifeless holes where the eyes should be, floating in her limp hands before her face. Panicking, she grabs again and again, pulling away, tearing each face she has ever worn off of her until they float in a circle, surrounding her, empty sockets still glaring like a counsel of disapproving septons. Chief among them is her own. She claws until she realizes there is nothing left to grasp at. She has no face, naught but a sunken skull picked free of flesh.

This time, when she screams, she makes a sound.

Awake, she sees she is in a fine room, in a fine bed. She is wearing new, clean clothes. The door swings open and she sees Gendry's concerned face.

"Where are we?" she blurts out.

"The Red Keep," he answers. "Are you okay?"

Arya breathes heavily, trying to calm herself down, brushing off Gendry and heading out into the next room, a small but lavish living space, where a fresh breakfast has been prepared. At the table, she recognizes the stern knight who found her in the street, sitting next to the fattest man she has ever seen, with a massive mustache that droops down to the collar of his turquoise doublet. Slowly, her memory comes back. The knight, Ser Gavin, had brought her here. Strange women had bathed her, clothed her and put her in bed.

The fat man motions for her to sit. Cautiously, she complies and slowly begins to eat, the first truly good meal she has had in years. Ser Gavin exchanges a glance with the man, confirming some previous conversation.

"You're Arya Stark, aren't you?" the man asks. Shocked Arya jumps up to look for Needle. "No, no calm down, my lady, I'm Wylis Manderly. I served your father." Arya glances back and forth between the two men, then to Gendry.

"It's true," the blacksmith nods. It is only now Arya notices him in his own new, fine clothes. He looks a bit like a lord now, she thinks. Calmed, she sits back down.

"Now, listen to me very carefully," Wyllis begins. Arya can tell this is a nervous man, unfamiliar to the tamest of schemes. "This is going to be dangerous. This is going to be hard. But the North remembers. We're going to get you home, Arya."

* * *

**Beyond the Wall**

The body of the priest slain by the bear burns on a pyre in the ashes of last night's fire. The priests and priestesses stand vigil over their fallen brother, while the rest of the ever-smaller troupe of voyagers sit in the snow and ice, like sheep without a shepherd. Tormund sits in the snow, holding _Longclaw _in his hands.

"We've got to follow it," he decides. "Tracks are clear as day."

"The bastard's dead, Giantsbane," the Hound shuts him down. "So's anyone who goes chasing after that monster."

"Bastard? The King in the North!" Tormund shouts back.

"King, bastard, ain't no difference in the end. Still bear-meat all the same."

Tormund rises to fight him but Beric, Obara and Molda rush to stop him.

"Jon's gone, Tormund," Obara looks him in the eyes. "But we can still finish his mission. We find the river. We find the tree. And we kill the fucking Night King."

At first, this seems to get through to the fiery Wildling. But then he turns away.

"You lot freeze your asses off for all I care. I'm gonna find that bear and…" His voice trails off as he reaches the top of a ridge. Yelling with joy, he disappears over the edge. His daughters and Obara rush to see, but none could expect the reality – Jon Snow and a strange man riding atop a massive horse, Ghost padding along beside them. Tormund pulls Jon from the horse into a crushing embrace. The man on the horse draws nearer. Obara backs away when she sees his face.

"You have nothing to fear from me," the man smiles, but this does little to set her mind at ease. She turns to see High Priest Naan and his followers appear over the ridge. Naan instantly draws his sword to challenge the approacher.

"Get away from that creature!" he commands the girls.

"Stand down!" Jon shouts. "That's my uncle!"

"Your uncle?" Jack of the Brotherhood scoffs. "Looks like a White Walker to me!"

"How the fuck do you know what a Walker looks like, Jack?" the Hound hits the old Brother on the back of the head.

"I'm not a White Walker," the man assures the agitated crowd.

"Then what are you?" Naan stalks nearer, though Jon now stands between the two.

"I am, perhaps, what they were meant to be, once. But not corrupted. You may call me Coldhands, if you like." His voice sounds like scraping ice crystals, Obara thinks. She watches as Jon and Naan stare daggers back at each other, until finally the bearded high priest sheaths his sword.

"He knows the way," Jon declares. "Gather your things, and we can make the river in two days' time."

* * *

**Castlery Rock**

In the Stone Garden, Daenerys looks down at the long iron halberd in her hand, then up at the one in the hands of Ser Damion Lannister.

"I don't see why this is necessary," she mutters.

"My queen, if you insist on riding your dragons into battle, you must be prepared to fight, in case you fall as you did on the Roseroad."

"It will not happen again."

"Perhaps," Damion swings his halberd, his queen clumsily deflects it. "But while a wise warrior aims for the best, they must always prepare for the worst." And so Daenerys' training begins. Varys, Grey Worm and Kovarro watch from a balcony overlooking the garden.

"Why should she train with old man?" Kovarro snarls. "Puny westerner."

"He is younger still than Ser Barristan," Grey Worm remembers that noble knight. "He was twice your age, Kovarro, and three times the fighter." Kovarro clearly takes offense at this, but knows better than to challenge his khaleesi's commander.

"Have you seen the red priestess, lately?" Varys asks.

"She stays in the dragon's chambers," Grey Worm reports. "She works spells, but says Rhaegal and Viserion will not fly without sacrifice."

Varys tremors at the thought. "Surely our queen will not consent?"

"We have enemies to spare, Lord Varys," Grey Worm silences the dissent. "And we will not win this war if our dragons do not fly."

* * *

**The North**

The ramparts of Winterfell can just now be seen on the horizon as the returning party from Karhold stops to rest their horses, weary from trudging through the deep snow. Sansa and Littlefinger, heavily wrapped in furs, stand atop a hillside looking out at the desolate landscape. Sansa looks back to ensure all others are out of earshot, even Brienne. What she is about to say is no public matter. But Littlefinger opens his mouth first.

"This land is no place for a lady. I hated Hoster Tully for sending your mother here. She belonged in the south. Like you. They will never see you as one of their own."

"No, perhaps you are right, Lord Baelish," Sansa looks at him fiercely. "But whatever they think, I am a Stark. And those who would betray us must not go unpunished. I know you. I know your… talent for chaos. Return to White Harbor. Talk your way into Newcastle. And do not leave until Wyman Manderly is dead."

"My lady," Petyr is for once shocked by this turn. "They nearly killed me last time…"

"I trust you to find a way. Take Lord Royce. He and his men will defend you. You are the Protector of the Vale, or have you forgotten?"

"Are you sure this is wise?"

"It is justice." Sansa lays her hand against the man's frost-tinged beard, trying to look at him the way ladies are meant to look at their lords. "Do this last thing for me, and when my brother returns, I will return south with you."

"As you wish, Sansa," he clasps her bare fingers in his gloved hands. "And what of the boy, Mycah? I believed you had feelings for him?"

"Love is poison," she looks at him once more before turning back to her horse. "Whatever befalls his House, he must face the consequences. And then we will be safe. Just like you've always wanted, Petyr."

Hours later, the gates of Winterfell swing open, revealing Bran, Ser Kyle and Lord Blackwood, waiting with the newest trained guards, led by Podrick Payne. Sansa smiles to see her brother among the household once again.

"Where is Lord Baelish?" Blackwood asks.

"He had other errands to attend to," Sansa answers.

Bran frowns at that, but then smiles at his sister. "I hear that the Winter's Town is overflowing with soldiers and smallfolk alike. We must expand, but have limited materials. I have several ideas that may be of use to you in your preparations." Sansa is taken aback by this sudden helpfulness. It is almost as if he is his old self again.

"Lord Bran has been most helpful of late," Ser Kyle smiles. "We have been overhauling the defenses in your absence."

"I'm glad to hear that, Bran," she smiles. "I apologize for underestimating you."

"No need," Bran smiles, but beneath his robes his hand wraps tightly around the catspaw dagger. "We have all been apart so long. It's only natural we are not all who we used to be."

* * *

**King's Landing**

Before the Iron Throne, Lord Commander Balon Swann has finished giving the oaths of the Queensguard to Andrik, called "The Unsmiling", the mightiest of Euron's Ironborn warriors. The man makes a strange sight in his new gleaming armor and white cape, with his unkempt long hair and beard. But Balon knows looks are no true judge of a knight's character. There is no better example of that than Jaime Lannister.

Balon glowers at the queen's brother as he speaks with several members of Guard. His presence sullies this ceremony, Balon thinks. The Kingslayer had begun the spiral into the sorry troupe he now commanded. As a child, to lead the Kingsguard was a dream beyond his wildest fantasy. But are these the men with which he is to defend the crown?

"I see you are still missing a knight." Balon turns to see young Arthur Waters beside him.

"The queen has promised that spot to Ser Gerald Dayne."

"A worthy member, so I hear," the boy speaks well beyond his years. It might as well be his master Qyburn talking. "But I can see you are not pleased. Ser Andrik will serve you well, stories of his prowess are well known."

"Ser Dalton is a skilled knight as well. And Ser Gregor…"

"The Mountain is a miracle of Lord Qyburn's own design. Perhaps slow of mind, but he is the mightiest sword you will ever wield. The others, though…"

"I will not speak ill of my men," Balon turns to leave.

"Ser Preston and Ser Boros are old and fat. They should be replaced with true knights." Arthur grins, showing his youth.

"The Queensguard is a life vow. They will be replaced when they die."

"Oh, of course they will, my lord," Arthur's grin widens into a deeply unsettling shape. Ser Balon swiftly rises and departs the Hall.

"I wish to hear no more of such talk, boy!" he orders, but Arthur has already turned his attention elsewhere.

Deep below them, in the dungeons, Tyrion tosses a small stone against the far wall of his cell to pass the time. He can hear Melisandre's breaths in the cell beside him.

"You certainly have made yourself, useful, haven't you?" The woman has refused to speak to him since their imprisonment, but Tyrion will go mad if he doesn't talk. "You know, when I said you ought to set their ships on fire, I wasn't joking. You really should have done that."

"I have no power but that which my lord ordains," Melisandre finally answers. "He must have purpose for me here."

"Well, did he have to drag me along for the ride? This whole damned mess started with me getting thrown in a cell. Now it looks like it shall end that way."

"No." The red woman's blunt answer makes Tyrion laugh. "I fear you have far more to lose before death accepts you in its embrace."

A pounding on the door silences her. It swings open. Tyrion squints through the sudden burst of light to make out two guards and the wide silhouette of Genna Lannister.

"Auntie," he smiles.

"Nephew," she growls.

A few short moments later, Tyrion finds himself seated at a table across from Genna, quill and parchment before him.

"Does your queen know your hand?" she asks.

"I believe so. This is a ransom note, I presume?"

"Do you think your queen will answer it?"

"I… I don't know," Tyrion sighs in doubt. "I'm afraid I haven't been the greatest of Hands."

"Indeed," Genna shakes her head. "I'm disappointed in you, Tyrion. You always were the clever one. And then you murdered my brother, threw the realm into chaos and ran east to become a fool. What happened?"

"Maybe I was better off a drunk," Tyrion dejectedly signs the paper.

"Or maybe," Genna rolls up the scroll, "you realized you joined the wrong side?"

* * *

**Lannisport**

The people of Lannisport crowd the streets. There is to be an execution in the royal square, and rumors swirl. The new Targaryen queen is to appear, and every man, woman and child wishes with a mix of awe and fear to see one of her dragons. Dozens of Unsullied line the square with watchful eyes and ready spears. Before a great stone stage, two blazing cauldrons of fire already burn by four large stakes, tended to by the priestess Zatarra.

Most of her counsel is already in attendance, even the unwilling "squire", young Robert Brax. All, it seems, but Varys.

"Where is he?" Ser Damion asks, scanning the crowd.

"Damn eunuch doesn't have the balls for the hard parts of war," Lord Crakehall chuckles.

"Perhaps my father will show him mercy when he massacres the lot of you," Robert grumbles. "You've made me a coward. I refused to kneel, and you parade me around like a dancing bear!"

"Do you wish to burn with the rest, boy?" Crakehall cuffs his head.

"I would die with honor."

"There is no honor in a meaningless death," Damion shakes his head.

"These men will die heroes!" Robert insists. "Who will sing songs of you?"

"Oh, I knew long ago men would never write songs about me," Damion turns the boy's head out towards the flames. "And I've made my peace. You talk of heroes? Today we shall see what they are made of. In the flames, all men are just dust in the wind." Robert shudders.

"Are we sure this is necessary?" Jeyne Clifton eyes the priestess nervously.

"They were going to burn anyway," Crakehall replies. "Might as well put their ash to good use. Once it's done, maybe one've those dragons will let me take a ride?"

"Don't be foolish, Rolland," Damion shakes his head. "Boars are not meant to fly."

As if on cue, the sound is first heard – the thunderous flapping of wings as Drogon descends upon the plaza. The dragon, while stronger than its siblings, still struggles to fly, but the enthralled crowd would never notice. As Daenerys dismounts, clad in a flowing blue gown, she looks out at the people. It is good to face her subjects, but these are not the endearing faces of those she liberated in Mereen. She does not know how these people feel.

Grey Worm and the Unsullied march the prisoners – Lords Banefort, Lord Marbrand and his son, Ser Addam, and Ser Benedict Broom – into the open, where they are tied to the stakes. Even their first look at a dragon does not shake their defiance. Zatarra examines the sacrifices.

"Heathen witch," Lord Banefort shouts, before the butt of Grey Worm's spear silences him.

"People of Lannisport!" Daenerys calls out. "For too long you have been crushed under the yoke of tyranny! For ages, cruel lords and false kings ran you down into the dirt. They take your food and your gold and send you to fight in their wars! And for what? You know all too well what it feels like to be powerless. And these men want to keep you in chains! See what becomes of them!"

Drogon looms forward, ready to deliver the fiery verdict, but Zatarra steps forward.

"My queen! The chosen of our lord! There is yet another here whose heart burns against you! The Maester Creylen!" Several gasps can be heard as the maester is dragged forward and thrown down at the feet of the stage. Daenerys walks towards him.

"So it is true, then? You did seek to poison my children?"

"Our lord gifted you clear eyes, my queen," Zatarra nods. As she and Grey Worm drag the maester to the stake, he struggles, screaming to the crowd.

"You sheep! Have you so forgotten the curse the dragons were to us, that you would bow again so quickly? They fool you with fear and dark magics! But we killed the last dragons! In they end, they're all just flesh and blood!"

Daenerys watches Zatarra as she ties the man down. For only a moment, she feels fear, memories of the dark blood magic that claimed the lives of her son and her Khal. But this time would be different. This time the power is in her hands.

"Dracarys."

The flaming breath pours down in a rain of annihilation. If she could hear over the roar, she would hear Zatarra screaming praises to R'hllor, as the priestess throws her arms wide and the fire spreads to each pyre, the screams of the captives adding to the hellish cacophony. The people step away in awe, some drop to their knees in fear and reverence.

"Daenerys Targaryen!" Zatarra yells. "The one true queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men! The Breaker of Chains! The Mother of Dragons! The Unburnt! The Chosen One of our Lord of Light walks again among us! Azor Ahai!"

* * *

**Beyond the Wall**

The party; now down to Jon, Obara, Tormund and his daughters, Beric and his 7 surviving followers, and Naan's 5 remaining priests; reaches the summit of a small pass in the Frostfang mountains. Coldhands, in the lead, points down at the gorgeous valley and pristinely frozen Frostfang River.

"That is your way to the Heart Tree," he nods.

Before long, they have reached the bottom of the gorge and night has fallen. The further north they venture, the days shorten. Several small fires are set ablaze, and most retire to sleep. Jon sits alone with Ghost and Coldhands.

"I was sure you were dead," Jon says.

"I was."

Jon is at first at loss for a reply to that. Finally, he forces himself to laugh. "I actually know the feeling." But the laugh turns into sobs.

"I can tell." The man who once was Benjen Stark places a comforting hand on Jon's shoulder. "And I know it's hard. All these years, I've dreamed of crossing the Wall again. To see you, to stop the madness. The Children told me everything. About Ned…"

"You remembered us all?"

"Aye," Coldhands sighs heavily. "Though there were days I wish I hadn't".

"Beric says that no one comes back unchanged." Jon stares into his uncle's strange blue eyes. "That every time you return, you lose a little bit of yourself…"

"And now you think this has happened to you?"

Jon shudders at the thought. "Before all this, I loved a woman. She was brilliant, kissed by fire. And she died. And I knew I would never love again. But now, now I've met this queen from the east. Daenerys. And I can't stop thinking about her."

"Finding new love is no betrayal, Jon. It does not mean you've forgotten Ygritte."

"You knew…" Jon's heart still flutters at the name.

"I told you, the Children showed me all from afar. Every trial, every heartbreak, I was there with you. And you have made me so proud."

"I killed a child!" Jon finally bursts, tears beginning to flow. "I told myself it was right! That it was justice! But how can I know that was really me?"

"I know you Jon. You are so much like Ned. An honorable man. That has not changed."

"You're right," Jon composes himself as Ghost licks away his tears. "I am a Stark."

Coldhands gives him a strange look at that, pausing the conversation. Jon looks back. It is hard to read those cold eyes, but they seem sad. He senses his uncle wants to say something, but knows he cannot. What that could be, Jon could never guess. At last, he speaks.

"Of course you are, my boy. And you will lead us all through the winter."

As Coldhands wraps his arm around Jon's shoulder, embracing his nephew for the first time in an eternity, Obara, Munda and Molda lie on their backs to gaze up at the dancing aurora.

"What do you think it's like," Molda asks.

"What?" Munda doesn't look away from the aurora.

"To be dead. And then come back?"

"I know I don't want to find out," Obara murmurs, half-awake.

"No, you don't." The girls startle upright to see Beric sitting nearby, the lights above reflecting dancing shapes, green and blue, across his tired, scarred face. "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

"How many times they say you've come back, old man?" Molda asks.

"Six times," Beric sighs, the pain of each death conveyed in his words. "I know Thoros tells me it's for a reason. But sometimes I doubt. Our Lord better have a damned good purpose for me, for I swear it feels like punishment. Eternal hell, to be torn apart and pieced back together again, but with pieces missing. Parts you can never get back. Before I became this, I was betrothed. To a beautiful woman of Dorne."

"I knew I'd seen you before," Obara sits up. "You're Beric Dondarrion! And your betrothed was Allyria Dayne! She's waited for you these seven years, you know! Even after your squire, her nephew, stumbled back to Blackhaven saying he saw you slain, she wouldn't believe it! She's wasted away while you've been playing quest with a drunken priest!" This outpost cuts the resurrected lord to his core.

"Allyria…" Beric stammers out the name like a long-forgotten blessing. A single tear freezes solid on his cheek. "Allyria… I had forgotten…. All I can see now are her eyes. Her violet eyes. Oh, how they glowed…"

* * *

**Sunpear**

The violet eyes of Allyria Dayne now watch Arianne Martell as the two women await the trail-by-combat of the Lady of Starfall's cousin, Ser Gerold "Darkstar" Dayne. They are gathered in a sand pit within the palace grounds, designed for these occasions.

"I warned your father about Gerold," Allyria muses. "He has no honor. They say Cersei offered him a place on her Queensguard, like our cousin, Ser Arthur. And for that he would betray his Princess. Doran never should have paired the two of you."

"I think my father knew I was quite capable of handling Gerold," Arianne dismisses the pity. "Had he lived, this was all a part of a bigger plan."

"You still think so?"

"Yes. But we only now grasp at its strings…"

Trumpets sound as the accused enters, to loud boos from the crowd of guards and dignitaries. Arianne is slightly unnerved by the amount of Yronwood troops present. She glances down at Lord Anders Yronwood, pale-skinned for a Dornishman, with dirty-blonde hair and an absurdly square jaw. He had objected to the trial-by-combat, as the Throne had outlawed it. But, as Arianne had reminded him, Dorne is no longer under the rule of the Iron Throne. That seemed to have shut him up, but she noted he still had not formally pledged to her.

Now, cheers ring out as Ser Arys Oakheart enters the ring in his new black and yellow armor. The people love him, but Arianne still wishes he had allowed Ser Rolland to fight this battle instead. Her beloved knight was still recovering from his previous wounds. As the crowd settles down, Arys draws his weapon and raises it to shine in the sun.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Gerold Dayne? You stand accused of murder and treason against Dorne!" Gerold says nothing, simply drawing his own blade. Arys turns to look longingly at Arianne. "May the Warrior guide my sword with justice. May the Father judge this man for his crimes. And may the Mother show him no mercy!"

Arys looks to the Septon for the signal to begin. And in that instant, Gerold leaps forward. Before anyone can react, his sword slices out, perfectly removing Arys' head from his shoulders. Arianne and Allyria scream as the blood splatters their faces. In an instant, chaos erupts and the Yronwood troops draw their weapons and turn on the Martell guards!

In a state of shock, Arianne struggles to wipe the blood from her face when she sees Gerold leap into the stands and swing his sword at her head. She ducks, but half her face erupts in pain. Her vision blurs, her ears ring. She thinks she sees the shape of Rolland Storm hurling Gerold back into the pit, then his massive arms wrapping around her and carrying her away, down through the halls.

She thinks she sees many things – Anders Yronwood seizing Allyria Dayne, her loyal guard Joss Hood cut down. Then the stables, where a panicked girl rushes to free their finest horses. But that is all. The ringing is deafening, the red in her eyes blinding and then… black.

* * *

**Oldtown – The Glass Gardens**

Missandei sips peacefully on a cup of tea, reclining in a freshly drawn bath, when the door swings open. She is startled to see Ser Gunthor Hightower step in without announcement.

"Is something the matter, Ser Gunthor?" she asks, turning to avoid the knight's wondering eyes. "Where is Lady Leyla?"

"She had to step out. The court has been called to answer a new petition. I believe you will want to be there."

"Of course," Missandei nods. She waits to exit the tub but Gunthor shows no sign of leaving. Finally, Ser Argilac enters the room, ducking to avoid the low mantle.

"If your purpose is finished, you are free to depart." Argilac speaks quietly, but it is all that is needed. Gunthor makes a hasty exit, and Argilac places the freshly cleaned septa's robes he has retrieved by the tub, before leaving to ensure the prying knight has truely left. Missandei hastily dries herself and slips into her robes, hoping that the day will soon come when she will be reunited with Grey Worm and her queen.

* * *

**Oldtown – The Blackstone Fortress**

Samwell Tarly stands nervously in the Blackstone Court. He scans the room to see the assembled dignitaries of the city, the Faith and the Citadel. Ser Baelor is eating a pear upon his throne, he slices off a small piece to the pet lizard perched on his shoulder.

"Lord Tarly," Baelor shakes his head, "my father has not kept court with any but his closest advisors for years. I myself do not see him, and your father was no friend of our House."

"Beg pardon, Ser Baelor," Archmaester Theomere interrupts, "but this boy is no Lord. He is a brother of the Night's Watch and has forsaken all claim to his lands. He has no grounds to make any manner of request, much less speak to Lord Hightower."

"Then let me speak as a brother of the Watch!" Sam shifts his tactic. "I was sent here to learn how to fight the White Walkers! Let me petition Lord Hightower for his support in stopping a new Long Night!"

"Come now, boy, you don't expect old wives' tales to improve your argument?" Ser Gunthor laughs, and many others join him. Sam's cheeks blush with embarrassment and indignation, Gunthor was supposed to be on his side! But he sees that Baelor, at least, is listening.

"Wives' tale or not, it is good you have come here, Samwell." All turn to see a tall, thin old man in fine clothes - black, gold and red. Sam recognizes the pen on his breast, this must be the Queen's Hand, the former maester Qyburn. "As we debate the allegiances of Oldtown, perhaps it would be helpful for you to remind those assembled of what Daenerys Targaryen did to your family."

This catches Sam off guard, flusters, he can only sputter out. "You… you… can't be seriously thinking of aligning with her? Can you?"

"Our reaction, exactly, Samwell," Seneschal Ebrose speaks.

"She murdered my father and brother!"

"Daenerys Targaryen is not a murderer!" A tall, dark-skinned woman in the robes of a Septa stands - Missandei of Naath.

"And yet the fate of Randyll Tarly and those who stood with him say otherwise," Qyburn turns to look over Missandei. "Unarmed men, prisoners, executed in cold blood. You claim your queen is a benevolent liberator. I think those men would say otherwise. If they could say anything, that is."

"Lies!" Missandei insists. "You and your allies have spread all manner of lies about the true queen and her armies!"

"I'm afraid the reports of the survivors are quite clear," Ebrose asserts. "Perhaps it is you who have been misleading us?"

"Enough!" Baelor demands from the throne. "This counsel is not for the purpose of further debate on this matter! If there are no more petitions, then we are finished!" Sam waits, slightly dazed, as the long line of counsellors files out. Finally he leaves. What a waste of time, he thinks. He should have known better than to think this would work out. As he shuffles away, he turns to see Missandei approaching him with a frightening grim knight in a torn white cloak.

"I wanted to speak to you," she says. Sam tries to walk away, but she persists. He turns to face her. He has never seen the face of his father's killer. This woman, beautiful though she may be, is the only face he can put to his hatred. "Whatever happened in that battle, I wasn't there. I don't know. But I know my queen's heart. On her behalf, I'm sorry…"

"You want to apologize?" Sam snaps. "I'll tell you who you can apologize to! Follow the winds until you've found where they've scattered my brother's ashes. And apologize to them!"

He storms off, wishing nothing more to be out of this eerie, cold-yet-warm, haunting fortress. But one more figure blocks his path. Qyburn.

"Young Samwell, it was very bold of you to speak like that today," he smiles.

"If you think me bold, then you're as mad as they say," Sam pushes him aside.

"Oh, but you know otherwise. Did you not use my books to heal Jorah Mormont's greyscale?" This stops Sam's exit. "Oh yes, I heard about that. My little birds tell me everything. The archmaesters are blind to the true threats that face us, Sam, I can see you know this already." The old man pulls him close. "I know how to find the knowledge you seek, if you listen carefully."

* * *

**Oldtown – The Ironworks**

The hulking dark frame of the center for all metallurgy in the city glows bright with the flames of the smiths even late into the night, as Gilly and Ser Gunthor, disguised in the robes of a commoner, tread quietly into its cavernous bowels. They do not notice Qyburn's little bird, Alys, following close behind. Gunthor knows every passage here like the back of his hand. As they near the central vault, he recognizes guards where none should be necessary. The duo ducks out of sight, moving through tight passages until finally they find themselves within a vault. Gilly steps back in fright at the sight of the largest smelting furnace she has ever seen, a great monstrosity roaring with fiery, molten breath.

Standing before it is a shrouded woman. Gilly could never have recognized her, but even through the shadows, Gunthor can – his eldest sister, Mallora. One hand holds an ancient tome, the other waves through the air, dangerously close to the flames, seemingly drawing out sparks with her fingers as they form shapes and symbols in the air. Gunthor's jaw drops as he realizes what is happening.

"Valyrian steel…"

* * *

**The Fields Outside of Oldtown**

Sarella rides horseback along the lazy Honeywine River as it flows through the rolling hills beyond the city. She should be almost upon the Oldtown Army's camp, but there is no sign of life but a rabbit scampering through the grass. As she watches, the rabbit runs off, startled by a stray wind, up and over a hillside. And disappears. This is, of course impossible. But if there is one thing she has learned from her time on the fringes of the Citadel, the impossible is not all it's cut out to be.

Dismounting, Sarella creeps forward to the spot where the rabbit vanished. Stepping forward, she feels a wave of energy wash over her. Suddenly, the serene countryside is gone, replaced by a massive encampment of tents and a huge construction project – a ditch dug deep into the ground, supported by wooden planks, stretching far off into the horizon. Even at night, workers toil away at the project.

"You there! Don't move!" A guard in Hightower colors calls out. She has been seen. But, needing answers, she does not move, instead allowing herself to be brought into the largest tent. As the guard pulls the entry flap aside, she sees a large table, with a model of the canal. Standing around it are several maesters, whose faces she recognized as friends of Marwyn, a short, teak-skinned woman she remembers as Alysanne Hightower, and Ser Garth himself, in full armor, his helmet resting on the table.

"Sarella!" Alysanne recognizes her. "You needn't worry, we're all friends. I always wanted to become a maester myself, no one here will betray your cover."

"So you finally found us," Sarella turns as a sweaty man in workers' clothes enters. An unkempt mess of red hair on his head and a pock-marked face, he is built like a laborer, but the others present treat him as nobility, so she follows suit.

"Lord Arthur Ambrose," he bows and introduces himself, clearly uncomfortable with the shows of formality. His wife, Lady Alysanne, brings him a drink and a moist towel to wipe the sweat from his brow. "I've heard a great deal about you, Sarella. Marwyn always spoke highly of your work. Welcome to the best kept secret in The Reach."

"You're building a canal?" she peers down at the model. "Connecting to the Mander?"

"On orders of my father," Alysanne nods. "He has foreseen a great war coming, this is just a small part of our preparations."

"But from outside…" Sarella looks around.

"It is necessary we work in secret. My sister and Marwyn's spells let us do so."

"So it's true," the young acolyte grins at the thought. "They've unlocked the secrets of the old magics!"

"Indeed," Lord Ambrose nods. "And not a moment too soon, if Leyton's visions are to be believed. A song of ice and fire, he says."

"Have you heard from Marwyn?" Sarella asks. "Since he sought the Dragon Queen?"

"No." The tent startles to hear the ever-silent Ser Garth speak, a voice like steel grating on stone. His black eyes seem to stare right through them. "Not the girl. The true heir. Another dragon walks among us..."

* * *

**CREDITS**

_As always, thanks for reading! And any comments are greatly appreciated. I'd love to hear what you all think about how I've handled the Hightowers and Western Lords so far!_


	14. The Fire Flower

**S08E04 The Fire Flower**

* * *

**Lannisport **

Daenerys Targaryen leaves a shop with Varys and Ser Damion Lannister, after passing out food to the poor. As she mounts her horse, she can hear the cries of converts to the Red God, proclaiming her as their foretold savior. Varys is clearly unsettled by the shouts. His animosity to the Red Priestess Zatarra and her followers has not been concealed.

"Perhaps, my grace, you could silence those wailers?" he asks.

"Why would I silence my most fervent supporters, Lord Varys?"

"Zealots, my queen. I have dealt with many like them. They are dangerous."

"I was told the same about you," Daenerys glares down at the bald eunuch. "You were to be my Master of Whisperers, the man with a thousand eyes. Where are they now?"

Varys sputters, at once at a loss for words.

"It seems your little birds have flown the coop," Damion sneers.

"Make yourself useful, Varys. I hear you are resourceful. You'll think of something." With that, Daenerys bids her horse ride on, with Damion at her side, leaving Varys standing alone in the market. As they ride back to the city, Daenerys sees the people rush out of her path. Her heart aches at the side glances from suspicious eyes that cut like daggers.

"When I was in Mereen," she thinks out loud, "those I liberated loved me."

"These people are not slaves, my queen," Damion says. "They are hungry, tired and afraid of winter. They care little about who sits on the throne, so long as they are left to live and die, content with small, happy, irrelevant lives. They do not need to love their ruler. They only want peace and stability."

"And you? Why do you follow me, Ser Damion?"

"I told you I would never lie to you, my grace," the old knight smiles. "I lived my whole life in the shadow of Tywin Lannister. But I was lucky. All he ever did to me was cut off my family when my father married a commoner. Anyone who has seen firsthand the crimes he perpetrated would be more than justified to seek the destruction of his legacy."

Daenerys frowns at that. She too hates the name Tywin Lannister, but this is no true source of loyalty. Damion marks her disapproval.

"But I do truly believe you will be a good queen," he adds. She gives no further response, and they remain silent for the rest of their ride to the fortress.

* * *

**Castlery Rock**

In the war room, a long table spreads out a gilded map of Westeros. Story holds a long passed Lord visited Dragonstone and, upon returning, insisted his own painted table be built. Being a Lannister, the copycat table was, of course, coated in gold. Quite garish, Varys thinks. He looks around at the assembled counsel, grim faces all. A raven has brought foul news from the capital – Tyrion Lannister's freedom offered for the release of Robert Brax and several crucial keeps.

"Let the dwarf rot!" Lord Crakehall blusters. "I say we attack now, press the advantage, and wipe out Hornvale and the rest of 'em!"

"That dwarf is my Hand, Lord Crakehall," Daenerys reminds him. "If you are confident we can defeat the Brax army, why do we need their heir hostage?"

"To deal with Cersei would be perceived as a sign of weakness." Damion replies. "One she will not hesitate to exploit again, if you give in now. How would you rank the advice of your Hand? How much is it worth to you?"

"Tyrion has made mistakes," Varys says, "but…"

"No more on that matter," Daenerys interrupts. "You said you had word from Oldtown."

"The Faith's Tournament will begin soon, my queen," Varys answers. "They have invited you to personally attend and will crown you on the day of The Father's Feast."

"As was Aegon," the queen muses.

"The Faith wishes to restore themselves to power through your patronage," Damion shakes his head. "All their holy days are just smoke and mirrors."

"The Seven have chosen our queen, the High Septon is just their voice," argues the devout Jeyne Clifton.

"And if I do not go to Oldtown?" Daenerys asks.

"Take the fight to the mountains," Grey Worm points to the map. Damion and Crakehall nod approvingly. "Show them your power."

"Burn Hornvale…" Daenerys looks at the gem-studded unicorn markers.

"No, not Hornvale," Damion says. "House Brax is Warden of the West. The rebels look to their guidance, and they can hide in the cliffs for years. We know that Ser Flement refuses to bargain for his son. But the other lords do not. Burn their keeps and their lands. But leave Hornvale untouched. Their own suspicious minds will do the rest."

"Such destruction will be unnecessary with the support of the Faith and the Hightowers!" Varys protests.

The doors suddenly swing open and in strides Zatarra, in flowing red robes.

"Our lord has healed your dragons, my queen. They fly once more and cry out for their mother," Danerys rushes to leave, but the priestess stops her. "But where will you take them? To a city, to be gifted authority by the unbelievers who would control you? Or to show your enemies the only authority you need, fire and blood?"

* * *

**The Blackstone Fortress**

Deep in the halls of the ancient seat of House Hightower, a blazing fireplace gives light to a clustered group of women sewing elegant gowns for the Festival Ball – Lady Rhea Hightower; Baelor's wife, Rhonda, and her daughter, Hela. With them sits Missandei of Naath, whose clumsy fingers are unfamiliar to needle and thread. Rhonda has dutifully taught her guest, but it has proven little use, and Missandei grows increasingly frustrated.

"At Brightwater, our servants did the sewing, as it should be," Lady Rhea grumbles.

"Stitching builds character," Rhonda chides the younger woman. "There is something special about a dress you have made for yourself."

"I bet the maesters can't sew their own robes," Hela sniggers. She looks over to Missandei. "I want to be a maester and travel the world, but they don't take girls."

"Well, they certainly seem quite foolish," Missandei smiles at the small girl. "Once Queen Daenerys is crowned, I'd like to see them try to turn us away."

"The Citadel is no place for a lady," Rhea glares at the others scornfully. "Too much reading will make you a bore like your aunt Alyssane. Too much travel will erode your morals, like your aunt Leyla."

"That's enough, Rhea!" Rhonda snaps. Despite her higher rank, Lady Rhea knows better than to press the matter further. Rhonda turns to her daughter. "You are a Hightower, my dear girl. You can be whatever you want. A sailor like Humfrey, a scholar like Alysanne, even an advisor to a great ruler, like the Lady Missandei."

"But what are you, mother?" Hela asks.

"I am your mother. And a wife to your father."

"That sounds so boring," the girl whines. Rhea scoffs disapprovingly.

"Perhaps. But behind every great Lord is a great Lady. I am your father's first confidante, his closest advisor. One day you will find your role, Hela. And you must do it proudly. There are no small parts in this game we call life. Only small people."

That final jab, clearly directed at Rhea, sends the snobbish woman marching away for good. Rhonda barely seems to notice.

"It is time for you to go to bed, sweetthing. Say good night." Missandei's heart warms as the girl embraces her, before scampering off to bed, trailing dress and needle. Missandei returns to halting work on her own gown.

"She's a very sweet girl," she smiles.

"Indeed. A blessing for our pain. She and our Arthur were two of many, but even in this city, some afflictions are beyond reach."

"I'm sorry," Missandei thinks back to her own queen, and her dragons, loved in place of children she will never have.

"No," Rhonda shakes her head. "Baelor and I have been blessed by The Mother with two wonderful children. One cannot dwell long on loss. I imagine you were very much like Helena once."

"Yes, perhaps," Missandei thinks back to her past. "But I pray she will never know the evils I have seen."

"That is why we are here, is it not? To craft a better world for our children?" Rhonda continues sewing. Missandei smiles in agreement, but gasps in pain once more as the needle jabs her thumb. "Let me have that," the older woman gently pulls the fabric away. "I'll finish it."

"But your own…"

"I have plenty. You have many gifts, Missandei of Naath. Sewing need not be one of them. I'm sure you have many duties to prepare for the Festival." Missandei cannot help but agree. It is time to return to the Glass Gardens. The city is already bursting with life as the day of Our Father's Feast rapidly approaches. As she rides away, path ever lit by the Hightower's flames, she looks back fondly on the great fortress. For the first time in her life, she no longer dreams of Naath. Perhaps, she thinks, this could be home.

* * *

**Castlery Rock**

In her private chambers, Daenerys is at last alone Grey Worm. Her mind is frayed and pulled in many different directions. It had been like this in Mereen. But there, she was so sure she was right. Now, the way is so unclear...

"I wish Ser Jorah were here…" she muses.

"Missandei says he is healed." Grey Worm's mind strays to his love.

"And he seeks to expand our fleet. Yet he is not here. Nor is Missandei. I know you want to see her again, even more than me. We are surrounded by strangers here."

"I swear my judgement is not clouded, my queen!"

"I know that."

"If you go to Oldtown, you will be given authority by these men and their gods. It will not be your own. You must find a way to make all the kingdoms respect you. You once spoke of a threat in the North?"

"Jon Snow…" Daenerys muses, picturing the handsome northerner and his strange warnings. "I see what must be done. We shall deal with the matters at hand. Then our eyes can turn North. But what of Tyrion?"

"His mistakes have cost you much, my queen."

"So you would be my Hand?"

"No, I know little of this land and it's..." He searches for the word. "Formalities. Ser Damion does."

"Do you trust him?" she asks, concerned.

"He taught me to ride. He taught you to fight. Everything we have here, he built for us. He will build a nation for you, if you let him."

* * *

**The Red Keep**

Cersei, Jaime and Genna Lannister, along with King Euron and Lord Brax, leave a meeting with Ser Wylis Manderly. On behalf of his father, new Warden of the North, Wylis has negotiated marriages for both his daughters – Wynafryd to Tywin Dondarrion and Wylla to Walder Brax. Tywin and Wylla are to be married in a fortnight in White Harbor. Once Genna and Cersei are alone, the old woman turns to her niece.

"You do realize that this plan will join three of the most powerful families in the Seven Kingdoms? Wyman Manderly will hold sway in the North, East and West."

"We need powerful allies."

"And are you sure Wyman is an ally?"

"The North is in chaos thanks to him," Cersei asserts. "If there is one thing we can be assured of, he is no friend of Daenerys Targaryen. And for now, that is all that matters."

* * *

**The Black Cells**

Tyrion hears the door to his cell creek open. He does not know what day it is. He has no idea how long he has been imprisoned, or even how long since he was ransomed. But his glazed eyes brighten to see, at long last his brother standing in the door. He forces a smile.

"Funny how cyclical life is. Come to break me out again?"

"No," Jaime says coldly. "The last time I helped you, you repaid me by murdering our father."

"Our father was a wicked man."

"Are we so different? Everything that has happened here since he died, every disaster, every cruelty and murder, falls on you."

"You've come here to chastise me in my chains?"

"No. I've come to say good-bye. I leave for White Harbor, to represent the crown in the Merman's Court." Tyrion laughs at that.

"Our sister finally found a new toy and now you've been cast away!" he jeers.

"Perhaps," Jaime turns to leave. "It may be for the best, in the end. I can only pray that your queen does not dismiss you so lightly." As the door slams behind him, Tyrion is left in the dark, alone once again. To no one, he whispers...

"Good bye, brother."

* * *

**The Silence**

On the deck of the great black ship, Euron's crew brings the wooden beast to life. Standing amidst the chaos, Yara and Theon Greyjoy are bound by heavy ropes. But in the chaos, they have been left unguarded.

"He's going to kill you," Yara whispers to his brother. "His priests demand king's blood for their magics."

"We have the same blood," Theon is confused.

"I can't let him hurt you," she shakes her head, backing him to the edge of the ship. "Our paths break here. You need to find your destiny."

"My destiny is with you!"

"No, Theon. You've always been a wolf. It's time to rejoin the pack." With that, Yara shoves him over the edge of the ship and into the bay. As her brother swims away, she can already hear the clamor of Euron's approach and steels herself for his wrath.

* * *

**King's Landing Docks**

Now clad in the green and white leather of Manderly servants, Arya Stark and Gendry work at loading Ser Wylis' ship, _The Merman's Wrath. _The chilling winds of winter have finally reached the capital, and their breath is fog in the air. But the cold is the least of Arya's concerns.

"I can't leave," she mutters. "I vowed to kill Cersei."

"I don't doubt you could pull it off," Gendry grunts, heaving a heavy crate over his shoulder. "But do you really think that's wise?"

"It's Cersei! Everything that happened to my family is because of her!"

"And what happens if she dies? Euron is king, he'll have all the power. You think that'll be better?"

"I suppose not," Arya grumbles, glaring across the docks to the imposing shape of _The Silence, _already sailing away. She can feel the darkness emanating from its decks. "But I'll be back. And then I'll kill them both."

"And then who will sit on the throne?"

"Doesn't matter," she hurls a case on deck, hearing something fragile break. "As long as she's dead."

* * *

**The Citadel**

"Are you sure we can trust him?" Sarella asks as Pate leads her and Sam through the dark tunnels of the lower levels. In one hand, he holds a torch aloft, in the other dangle a purloined ring of archmaester's keys.

"I don't know. He found me and brought me back to help you. And he stole the keys for us.

"Not Pate!" Sarella hisses. "Qyburn! He's the one who sent us down here. What did you tell him?"

"Nothing!" Sam insists. His mind runs back to the discoveries they had made, ancient magics unlocked and at work under the cover of night right here in Oldtown. If half the things men said of Cersei were true, he knows they cannot let Qyburn discover the truth. But in this, he will take what help he can get. "He was friends with Marwyn. I think he wants to find him as much as you." They stop as a great iron gate bars their way. Peering beyond, they see a great trove of texts and artifacts, buried away here in the bowels of the Citadel and accessible only by archmaesters – The Library of the Higher Mysteries.

Pate sorts through the keys until he finds the right one, trying to muffle their jangling as he unlocks the gate and slides it open. The acolytes' eyes spread wide with awe at the sight. Pate slips in past them, and begins searching through the archives. Sam's hands shake as he begins to examine the shelves. Pulling open a cob-webbed drawer, he raises an ancient crumbling map.

"This is the Blackstone Fortress!" He holds the old parchment up to the light, but not too close, illuminating the traces of great halls and secret passageways. Eagerly, Pate pulls the map away. Sam turns back to the shelves to continue his search for the annals of the Long Night, but stops when he hears Sarella gasp. She is standing over a collection of books.

"These are Marwyn's journals," she whispers. "He never would have left without them."

In shock, she backs away from the boxes, into a side-room. Hearing her cry out, Sam rushes in to see her standing before Seneschal Ebrose and Archmaesters Theobald and Norren. With them are a half-dozen city guardsmen. Panicked, Sam looks back to the doorway, but Pate has disappeared.

"I am so disappointed with the two of you," Ebrose shakes his head.

"What have you done with Marwyn?" Sarella rushes the old man but is restrained by the guards.

"You think I didn't know your secrets?" Ebrose sighs. He tears open the front of Sarella's tunic, revealing the bindings underneath. "A woman and an oathbreaker. You with your childish charade and Samwell with his secret little family? But I saw something in both of you. Something better. You would have been great maesters. Great servants to our cause. But you just couldn't leave this be."

"How can you be so blind?" Sam yells as Ebrose leaves. "The people need to know how to fight the White Walkers!"

"That is just the sort of fantasy we are meant to dispel, boy," Theobald grumbles.

"What else are you hiding in here?" Sarella snaps. "The cure for greyscale, ancient magics, new technologies? The fact that a woman could be a maester?"

"It is our duty to study and to share what is necessary to maintain the peace. The people do not want change. It only ever breeds discord and unrest. As the two of you have now discovered." Theobald motions to the guards. "Lock them in the cells. We shall decide where to send these thieves later."

"Wait!" Sarella shouts, struggling as she and Sam are dragged away. "What have you done to Marwyn?"

* * *

**The Ravenry **

Qyburn presses out the creases in his royal clothes as he prepares for tonight's ball. He sees his captain, Ser Lyle Crakehall, the Strongboar, struggling to fit into his own formal wear. The little bird Alys is dressed as a Hightower servant girl, she will be at work gathering secrets tonight. Oblivious to all, senile old Archmaester Walgrave tends to his beloved birds.

"So what do you want with the fat boy?" Lyle grumbles.

"There are mysteries afoot here, far beyond what I could have imagined," Qyburn muses. "We must unlock them if we hope to win these wars. I knew that Marwyn's studies had been fruitful, but if what Alys saw is true? Valyrian steel? True magic? I only wish he were here…"

"Marwyn?" Walgrave suddenly turns to them, speaking like the creaking of a rusty gate. "Poor old mage. A horrid thing that they did to him."

"What did they to him?" Qyburn slowly asks, eyes widening.

"He got in their way. Ebrose and Theobald and the rest. A pity. Asked the wrong questions," Walgrave strokes a white raven. "They chopped him up, right here, and fed him to my birds. Gave them horrible indigestion…." His filmy eyes blink slowly. "Who are you again?"

"Just a friend, archmaester," Qyburn turns away. "Just a friend."

* * *

**The Blackstone Fortress**

The great ballroom of the fortress is ablaze in light and alive with a massive crowd of the most esteemed lords, ladies and knights of the southern Reach. Guests from as far as the Summer Isles strut in their finest wardrobe. The Feast of Our Father is the holiest day for followers of the Faith, and its Tournament Festival in Oldtown is one of the grandest celebrations in the known world. A great blackstone stair leads down to the floor, and the doors swing wide open. All eyes turn to see the highest guests of honor enter.

But even amidst the city's greatest nobles, all eyes are on Missandei of Naath, clad in a vibrant orange gown that trails behind her as she descends the stairs. As the ball carries on, she finds herself swarmed by dignitaries, both those seeking to learn more of the mysterious Dragon Queen's advisor and no small amount of hopeful suitors. Quickly tiring of dance, she takes shelter at the long tables of refreshments with her host, Lady Leyla Cupps. Her husband, Ser Jon, is among the other lords, each seeking to learn and shift the will of Ser Baelor. As usual, Leyla is already drunk and full of gossip.

"I'm glad you've managed to stay out of Gunthor's claws," she glares at her younger brother. "Everyone's always loved him, but they don't know the half of it. He hates his wife, you know, hates Baelor for making him marry her. He's been fucking Lady Rhea even before she married our father." Missandei is taken aback, causing Leyla to laugh hysterically, her rotund body shaking in the too-small dress the vivacious woman has pulled herself into.

"We may seem high and mighty, but the gods only know how we keep this city together. And that is why I drink." She hands Missandei a goblet of wine. "But you, Baelor's right when he calls you a fire flower. You may be just what we need." Unsure what to make of that, Missandei takes a long drink and hands it back to her friend, before returning to the throng of nobles, a sea of faces lighting up to see her.

* * *

**The Blackstone Fortress**

The ball over, little Alys helps guide a very drunk Strongboar down the slick black steps of the fortress. Qyburn however, stays back. He rubs his hand along the black stone, picking up residue from the always-moist surface, and peers up at the flaming beacon high above.

"You did good work, Brandon," he says to himself. "Shame you didn't leave any notes on how to do it." When his eyes return to eye level, he sees he is not alone.

"I must say, your rise has surprised me," says the Seneschal, extending his hand. "And I am not often surprised."

"Ebrose," Qyburn spits out the name. He examines the man's hand suspiciously, finding a thin scar on his palm. "I see you still bear my parting gift."

"Indeed. Fate is cruel, is it not? How I wished your feet would never again sully the stones of this sacred city. And yet here I am, come to seek your alliance."

"You wish to stop the Dragon Queen," Qyburn deduces.

"The return of the dragons portends doom for Westeros. We both know that. The Hightowers ought to know, too, but Baelor turns my council away with a wave and a smile. But you once boasted the ear of Lord Leyton himself," Ebrose looks up at the Hightower. "Perhaps he would listen to you once again."

"And yet he is up there and we are down here."

"Yes, but you know as well as I that The Citadel holds the keys to this city. We can so you the way past the guards. Do us this boon, and I swear to you our feud will be at an end. But betray our trust, and that little pin on your breast will never save you."

Qyburn nods in affirmation. _Go on, you old fool. Tell me your secrets. And when my work here is done, I will leave a parting gift for the ravens. They seem to have developed a taste for old grey rats._

* * *

**The Hightower**

High above the two old scholars, Mallora silently slips into the Lord's Chambers after spending the evening lurking in the corners of the ball. She finds her father hunched over a desk, examining a collection of ancient texts.

"How goes the festivities?" he asks without looking up.

"I fear our efforts have been exposed," she replies. "Our enemies our converging. Baelor and the Faith are both ready to crown the Dragon Queen."

"Damn it all!" the old mage hurls his chair across the room, a fire in his eyes. "He would never do so without my consent!"

"Perhaps you have been locked up here too long, father."

"Then it is well past time we play our hand," Leyton strokes his tangled beard, stalking towards the glass candle in the center of the room. "And pray that the Three-Eyed Raven is ready to fly…"

* * *

**Beyond the Wall**

On the cliffs rising up above the frozen Frostfang River, a shadowcat prowls the walls of the Frostfang valley. Suddenly, from behind a rock, a spear flies out, ending the predator's hunt. Emerging to examine the kill are Obara Sand and the Giantsbane's daughters - Munda and Molda. Obara has grown close with these wildling girls, each just a few years younger than herself, and with no more patience for the mores of Westerosi society. The Free Folk would get along well in Dorne, she thinks.

"Nice kill," Molda grins through dirty teeth as the trio approach the slain beast. "I ain't even killed a shadowcat before."

"That's 'cause you're a shit hunter, Molda," Munda playfully jeers.

"Don't listen to her, it takes real skill to get one. Munda couldn't get 'er one if it laid down to nap right at her feet."

"Are they good to eat?" Obara removes and cleans her spear.

"Not great, but it's food. And they have a damn fine cloak. Bet it would look even better on you."

Far below, on the frozen river bed, the effects of frostbite are setting in among the weary travelers. Old Jack has lost a toe, which Thoros insists he cannot mend, much to the amusement of the Hound and the horror of Anguy and Tom O'Sevenstreams.

"I can't lose no fingers," Anguy grumbles. "I wouldn't shoot straight!"

"Yes, well mine own fingers are precious," Tom snipes back. "Otherwise I wouldn't be able to play!"

"Well, I think my bow will be a good deal more useful when we find the bloody army of the dead! What do you plan to do, sing them all to sleep?"

From a distance, Jon and Coldhands watch the group as the sun sets.

"We're close," Jon says. "I can feel it."

"They have much more to fear than lost toes," his uncle looks back to the group. "The sun will not rise again on these parts until our war is won. The long night has begun."

* * *

**Skagos**

Davos Seaworth stands alongside Ser Bartimus and Marlon and Mycah Manderly in Driftwood Hall - a creaking, groaning wooden keep on the shores of a hidden cove that shelters the Skagos fleet of stolen and restored ships. Having been captured by a patrol, Davos is still shaken by his first sight of the savage warriors on their massive, long-furred unicorns. And now they stand before Lady Tyranna Stane, sitting on a throne carved from a massive weirwood trunk. Also present, watching with angry eyes, is the massive Lord Magnar, a fearsome man with a unicorn-horn helmet and a tangle of lobster claws woven into his massive beard.

Lady Stane wears a heavy, brown fur dress, with a crown of branches and dry seaweed woven into her long black hair. Her piercing brown eyes look the prisoners up and down, until she recognizes Bartimus.

"The Half-Knight," she laughs. "What brings you back to Driftwood Hall?"

"We come to seek your aid, Lady Stane," Bart bows, the others hastily following suit. "The Night King nears the Wall. We need your help in the Battle for the Dawn."

"Why should we come to your aid?" Lord Magnar thunders. "Your people have never gave a shit about us Skags!"

"You think you'll be safe here?" Mycah interrupts. "The Night King won't let you live in peace. He'll kill you the same as the rest of us."

"The Bay of Seals has never frozen," Lady Stane insists.

"You know the stories," Ser Bart chides. "He will freeze the seas until all men fall beneath his sway, mainland and Skagos alike. We need each other." But both leaders continue to look on skeptically.

"I know you, Ser Bart, and I recognize these Manderlys," Lady Stane muses, turning to Davos. "But who are you?" He nervously looks at his companions, before stepping forward.

"My name's Davos Seaworth, my lady. Hand to Jon Snow, King in the North."

"Fascinating. You speak for a king, Ser Davos. What can you offer me?"

"A seat at the table. King Jon wants to serve the whole North. Skagos has been isolated for too long. We must put aside our differences, the Long Night is bigger than all that. If we unite now, and win, we'll all be better off in the new dawn."

"A new dawn…" Lady Stane looks to Lord Magnar, who nods begrudgingly. "We will fight with your king against the winter, Ser Davos. Swear before the old gods that Skagos will stand beside you when this war is done." The four men drop to their knees to swear. Davos has never felt the presence of any gods before. But now, with the cold waters washing beneath the boards at his feet, he feels as if a million eyes watch him. And he prays this plan will work.

* * *

**Planky Town**

Princess Arianne Martell is slowly stirred awake by a soft rocking movement and the sound of lazily running water. One eye opens, but she finds the other covered. Half of her face burns as if on fire. Her hand feels heavily-wrapped bandages around her head. As her vision clears, she takes in her location – Planky Town, the floating city on the Greenblood River, home to the nomadic Rhoynar called the Orphans of the Greenblood.

She sees her companions, Ser Rolland Storm and a small girl she recognizes as the stable-girl Elia Sand, another of her uncle's bastards. And then there is a tall, olive skinned young man. Slowly, she remembers his handsome, roguish features, with a golden tooth and jade stud in his ear– Garin, her childhood friend. She hoarsely whispers his name.

"You really shouldn't have gone through all this trouble to see me again," he smiles. "My mother says you will heal." Rolland grumbles at that, he clearly did not approve of the Rhoynar healers and their mystic water-healing. Rolling to the side of the raft, she slowly removes the bandages, recoiling to see the horribly scarred right side of her face – ear gone and flesh mutilated. She quickly turns away.

"Don't be frightened," Garin embraces her. "You're still as beautiful as the first time we met, all those years ago." Arianne is not ready for such comforts and turns away, dipping her feet into the water. At last, she turns to Rolland.

"I've ruined everything, haven't I? A foolish, willful girl playing the game of thrones like a drunkard rolling the dice…"

"No," the bearded knight shakes his head. "I know what makes a great leader. I served one once. It is my honor to serve one again." They look around at their peaceful surroundings.

"We can't stay," Arianne shakes her head. "Darkstar will come looking for me. We can't bring war here."

"Then where do we go?" Rolland asks. The princess looks up to see a hawk circling overhead. She knows there is only one safe place.

"Across the desert. We must go to Skyreach."

* * *

**Sunspear**

Ser Gerold Dayne stalks the throne room like a leopard on the prowl. Lord Anders Yronwood sits upon the Martell throne, Septon Manuel close at hand. His cousin, Allyria watches him with judging eyes. She is unshackled, but knows she is in no way free. Nonetheless, she stands defiant of the treacherous knight as he pauses to pour his favorite brew of bitter lemon water.

"You expect me to call the armies of our House to serve you?"

"No cousin, I expect them to answer the call of Anders Yronwood, the new Prince of Dorne, as decreed by Queen Cersei Lannister."

"You think handing over Dorne will make you the Sword of the Morning? You will never be Ser Arthur."

"No!" Garold hurls his goblet across the room, marching towards Allyria. "Damn Ser Arthur! I know what they all call me, behind my back. I know I will never be the Sword of the Morning. I am Darkstar, and I am of the night. I will end House Martell, I will ride to King's Landing and be made a knight of the Queensguard. And when I am done, when I have laid our Queen's enemies dead at her feet, no one will remember the Sword of the Morning."

Turning away, he composes himself, straightening his silken purple doublet. All watch him cautiously as his dark, violet eyes survey the room.

"But you, Allyria? Why will you summon your armies? Dorne marches to join the forces of the Stormlands. I believe you've met their new Lord Paramount? And of course, you know his ward. Poor, young Lord Edric Dayne? The boy has survived so much. Would be a shame if anything were to happen to him".

* * *

**The Red Mountains**

Near the peak of Duran's Mount, one of the tallest points in Westeros, a great red stag chews away at a shrub, high in the snow-dusted, forested slopes of the northern red mountains. It's head raises up at attention at the sound of a snap in the brush. An arrow flies past its head, sending it running off into the surrounding thick pine trees.

"Damn!" a young man, bow in hand, runs into the clearing. Tall for his ten-and-six years, with pale hair, nearly white, and the deepest of blue eyes, Edric Dayne curses himself for missing his shot.

"Language," a voice chides from behind him. Lord Harlan Dondarrion emerges from the brush, the hulking form of Ser Balerion Horpe close behind.

"I should have had that one," Edric mutters.

"Yes, you should have," Harlan nods. "But that is no reason to demean yourself. We can still follow its trail. Let's see what you've learned."

Edric nods and begins to examine the path the deer has cut through the trees. The snow is not enough to leave tracks, but the ground too frozen to hold a print. Instead, he must follow the broken brush and branches. The path leads to the edge of a cliff. Looking down the sheer drop, he sees the once mighty deer dead on the rocks below. Looking at it like this, he must feel sorry for the poor thing. Yet moments ago he was cursing for not killing it himself. Odd how such matters work, he thinks.

"A pity," Harlan shakes his head. "But the meat should be salvageable. Ser Balerion, please retrieve the stag." The huge knight nods silently and climbs down over the precipice, his tattered white robes blowing in the wind.

Only now does Edric look up and out at the magnificent tableau before him, his pale lilac cloak twisting and pulling at his neck. As the mountains shrink, their rocks become redder and their trees become scarcer, stretching out for miles until, just on the horizon, the desert of Dorne can be seen. And beyond that, his home.

"A beautiful land, isn't it?" Harlan asks, tightening his tall black collar against the chilling winter air, though the wind does not disturb his carefully cut short hair.

"It's been so long since I've been home."

"Do not worry, Lord Edric. Your upbringing was entrusted to my brother, may the Stranger guide his soul. And now that duty falls to me. Soon you will be of age, and will take your place at Starfall. Until then, it is my honor to ensure your coming rule will be a just one."

Edric nods and, bow in hand, retreats into the forest. Harlan remains at the cliff until his knight returns, surveying the land before him, lands belonging to three kingdoms. Lands, he thinks, that will see a glorious future with men of honor to mold them. One day, all of Westeros will kneel before these mountains.

* * *

**Castlery Rock**

The counsel is assembled on the top of The Rock along with a huge crowd of soldiers. All three dragons perch on the edge of the cliffs. All eyes are on Daenerys as she reveals herself in magnificent red and black armored robes. She has passed out titles – Lord Crakehall, Master of War; Breanna Lantell, Mistress of Coin; Lord Merryweather, Master of Law; Lord Farman, Master of Ships; and, much to Varys' protests, Zatarra, Mistress of Whisperers.

Her new Queensguard stands assembled in white capes and black armor, including Dothraki, Unsullied and Westerners. But there is no Lord Commander. As the queen climbs atop Drogon, halberd on her back, Grey Worm and Ser Damion approach.

"Who shall command your guard?" Grey Worm asks.

"Lady Zatarra has assured me that Ser Jorah will return to us," Daenerys answers. "When he does, he will find his place waiting for him."

"And what of Lord Tyrion?"

"Tell Cersei we will not bargain," she presents a new Hand pin. "You have served me well, Ser Damion." The old knight is caught off guard by this, nervously straightening his wispy blonde hair as he accepts the pin.

"I am honored, my queen."

"Prepare the kingdom, Lord Lannister," Daenerys smiles. "When I am done, the people will rise to their rightful queen." With that, the dragons take flight. The thunderous wings knock all watching back as they watch in awe as the sun shines off the beasts' scales and their queen flies onwards to conquest.

* * *

**CREDITS**

_Special Guest Star Nick Frost as Lord Magnar_


	15. The Land of Always Winter

**S08E05 The Land of Always Winter**

* * *

**Beyond the Wall**

The weary band of travelers in this increasingly icy and forlorn wasteland cannot count the days since they last saw the sun, for the passage of time blurs whole weeks together this far north. Their path is lit by torch and flaming sword as they scale a final ridge. All souls suffer at least a faint tremble at what lies beyond this glacier. All but Tormund Giantsbane. The fierce, wild-eyed Freefolk leads the pack, nimbly scaling the precipice. Reaching the top, he pulls himself over to take in the vast expanse.

An unnaturally bright moon illuminates a seemingly endless sea of ice - rising, falling, twisting; at once deathly dark and alive with blue light. This is the place of the darkest tales old women whisper around the fire close at night. But such stories had never frightened Tormund.

"The Land of Always Winter," he breathes heavily from the exertion, hot breath turned to smoke and crystal upon release into the frigid air. And then he lets out a wild war cry. "Ain't no man seen this before! The Giantsbane is here for ye', frozen bastards!"

At once he is seized from behind as The Hound's huge hands cover his mouth.

"You'll get us all killed, you damn fool!" Sandor whispers. Tormund wrestles himself away, but remains quiet as the rest of the party reaches the top of the glacier. He locks eyes with Jon, crushing his friend in a monstrous bear-hug.

"You was right!" he whispers. "Those fookers look like fools for doubtin' you now!"

Jon himself is awed by the sight, he looks down at the map in his hands, then over at the somber form of his uncle, who simply points ahead. But here there is only ice, and no sign of the great weirwood for which Jon searches.

"We are not far," Coldhands finally speaks, before turning to the Red Priests. "Extinguish your light."

"I will not sheath my lord's protection in our time of darkest peril!" High Priest Naan is indignant. His followers turn their blades towards Coldhands defiantly.

"In case you haven't noticed, your lord's protection will make you all a lot of sitting ducks out here," Sandor Clegane sneers before trundling away down the glacier. The priests and priestesses wait on Naan's decision. At last, the man sheathes his blade and the others follow suit, reluctantly allowing Jon and his uncle to take the lead.

Sometime later, the two Starks are stealthily maneuvering across the ice at the head of the party. At once, Jon feels that his childhood dream has come true. Here he is, further beyond the Wall than any man dare venture, a ranger with his Uncle Benjen. No matter what the Walkers and the Children have done to change his father's brother, no matter what name he goes by now, Jon knows that this above all else feels right. Then, at the sound of a whistle, he bids those behind to stop.

Jon crawls across the ice to Benjen's side and they peer over a ridge. And then his heart freezes. Far below them, but clear in the blue moonlight, is a White Walker. And by its side, icy spear in hand, is another, but a child. One of Craster's sons, perhaps. Jon tries to sink into the earth as two devilish eyes prowl the horizon, as if they have heard some noise. But then they turn away, and both figures vanish into the icy haze. Jon breathes a sigh of relief. At last, they are here. And they have never been in more danger.

* * *

**Winterfell**

The days grow ever shorter and ever colder, but the frigid temperatures do not seem to bother Bran Stark or Lord Tytos Blackwood as they sit in the godswood, beneath the weirwood tree. Sitting in his chair, Bran's eyes are rolled back in his head as Blackwood watches him intently. In his mind, Bran is running with a pack of wolves, crashing through the underbrush in the mind of its leader, racing on, on into the North. Finally, he snaps out of the trance.

"I knew that wolf," he looks at the lord in his blood-red clothes. "Nymeria. She was Arya's."

"I figured as much," Blackwood nods. "It isn't often a direwolf finds it's own way south. It was bound to your sister. It may yet serve your House still. And we can only pray the gods lead the girl home as well."

"Thank you for protecting her," Bran smiles. "I wish I could see her."

"I don't think that would be a good idea."

"No, I suppose not," Bran looks away.

"You've been looking for your brother again, haven't you?"

"Yes," he admits. "I can't find him. Why can't I see him?"

"I wish I knew," the silver-haired lord sighs. "Have you had any visions lately. Not from the trees, but in your sleep?"

"Not for some time."

"Do you know what a glass candle is?" Bran laughs a little at that, and nods. "Well, ask a fool's question, I suppose. I think these visions you talked of, with the flaming sky, may be the work of a glass candle."

"You think some sorcerer wants to contact me?"

"Sorcerer, mage, someone most likely to be rather important, if they've managed to light a glass candle and are trying to speak with you."

"And you think it's wise to answer?" Bran asks, incredulously.

"Whether they are friend or foe, I think it's time you discover who they are," Blackwood pulls a strand of red twine from within his cloak and begins to wrap it tightly around Bran's frigid knuckles. "If you find yourself in another of these visions, focus on the string and you will come to your senses. And then we shall see what this stranger has to say. Perhaps they will have more of the answers you seek."

* * *

**Beyond the Wall**

The party stands before the mouth of a great ice cave which Coldhands has led them to. Jon can feel icy fingers closing around his heart. He knows this is the place that has been calling to him, ever since the day he found the ancient markings on Dragonstone. The markings that compelled him to lead this band of misfits so obscenely far into the North. As he stares into the pitch black tunnel before him, he can feel eternity staring back.

"Alright, it might be time to light up again," Tormund mutters. The Red Priests happily oblige. As they enter the cave, the lights play strange tricks on the crystalline, slick blue ice walls. Shadows dance around each corner and strange echoes can be heard from every direction as Coldhands leads them further into the labyrinth.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Obara asks as they enter a huge chamber.

"I damn well hope a place for me to rest my feet," Jack of the Brotherhood mutters. "Or even a spot of sunlight."

"Quit whinging," the Hound mutters.

"I'm not whinging!" the old man snaps back. "I'm just tired of walking on this gods-forsaken ice, is all."

"Sounds like whinging to me," Obara chuckles.

"This is where we stop," Coldhands suddenly bids the party halt. "Only Jon is to go further."

"What do you mean only Jon?" Beric asks. "We're all here for the same reason!" But as he protests, Jon silently walks forward, past his uncle, to the furthest reach of the light. And then he hears a cracking beneath his feet. Suddenly, the ice opens up and he plunges forward into darkness, hearing his friends call out for him. But Coldhands stops any others from going further.

"The boy was summoned here," he insists. "Now we wait."

* * *

**Bran's Chambers**

That night, Bran sleeps a restless slumber in his chambers, under the watchful eye of Lord Blackwood's raven. The red strings are wrapped tightly around his fingers. Once again in his dreams, he sees the burning sky. Remembering Lord Blackwood's words, he holds his hands to his face, focusing until he can see the red twine wrapped tight around his knuckles.

When he looks up, he sees an old man standing before in once-regal brown robes, now torn and dirty. His long beard is tightly woven but his hair wild and unkempt, his eyes heavy and weary and his brow deeply wrinkled. They stand in seeming nothingness and look into each other's eyes.

"Lord Brandon Stark," the man speaks. "The Three-Eyed Raven." Bran searches his mind until he recognizes the stranger. Howland Reed? No, nor Marwyn nor any alchemist.

"Lord Leyton Hightower," he sees clearly now. "Keeper of the Flame."

"Yes. It is good to speak at last to one who can understand my burden." His eye catches the mark on Bran's wrist, visible even in this state. "You have been marked by our enemy."

"Have you come to talk about the Night King?" Bran is impatient to learn the wizard's purpose. "I know him too well already."

"Oh, I know, my boy. We both know what is coming. You see, when my daughter was very young, she began to have dreams. Green dreams, I trust you know their omens well. That is what started this quest. A doom comes to strike us all, and I have dedicated myself to the higher mysteries of the ancient ones, all but forgotten by the fools who rule us today. All but you and I."

"How do we stop it?"

"We don't stop it. We are caught in a great war, an eternal war, spun wildly out of balance by the mistakes of our ancestors."

"We need to find Azor Ahai," Bran insists. "He stopped the last Long Night, he will stop this one! Is it my brother? Our the dragon queen in the West? Many priests follow them. But why can't I see them? I can see everything else!"

"Prophecies are horrid little beasts, Bran. They shatter and turn to legend. One man awaits Azor Ahai, another the Prince Who Was Promised. But it is a dangerous game. I tell you there are no winners in such a war. Only survivors. And when the frost thaws and the ashes clear, they will need you."

"I can't lead them! I don't even know if I can call myself Lord Brandon Stark! I'm not a man, I'm something else now. I wish I didn't know the things I do. How do I trust in the light once I've seen the shadow? I wish I could still just be a brother, a friend. But I'm not like them anymore."

"No, no my boy," Leyton turns Bran's eyes to the cosmic space above him. "You are the most human of us all. All our memories, all our stories live in you. And you must protect them from those who sing a song of forgetting. Love your people, learn to look into their hearts and most importantly, into your own. I must go soon, this communion is taxing. But never forget Brandon Stark. Never forget who you are."

* * *

**Beyond the Wall**

Jon's eyes creep open and he startles to see a pair of huge, green-gold eyes staring back. He frantically scrambles away, but finds he is surrounded by a crowd of small creatures, half-man and half-plant, they seem. As his mind clears, he sees them for what they are. The stuff of legend, the first to walk Westeros, the Children of the Forest. Slightly calmed yet still unnerved, he takes in his surroundings. He is in an icy chamber, lit by swirling blue lights, illuminating the largest weirwood tree he has ever seen, fully trapped beneath the cold blue ice.

"Follow me," one of the Children, seemingly their leader, takes his hand and leads him down to the bottom of the chamber, within the tangled roots of the tree. Here, a small, chilling pool of water remains unfrozen, and in it float large pods, white like the tree's bark, but with veins the color of blood.

"I am Root," the creature speaks. "You have traveled far, Jon Snow, to find us." As Jon nears the pond, several of the other Children move to stop him.

"His soul has been touched by our enemy!" one hisses. "He brought flames into our home!"

"Leave him be, Wing. We have seen this man, he was chosen for this task. And now he has met it." Root begins to gather pods from the pool into a sack. "He will be our champion, to retake this land from those who would destroy it."

"I don't know what you mean," Jon stammers, cautiously. "I'm no champion."

Root laughs at that. "Many will make you their champion, Jon Snow. Many already have. But you are a man who knows duty. You've sworn by the old gods all your life. Are you ready to truly serve them?" He extends the sack to Jon, who stares down at the dripping pods, than back up to the strange little imp. His nervousness has turned to consternation.

"I came here to kill the Night King, not to carry around a pack of seed!"

"You do not know why you came, for none know their own destiny. The Night King is the past, Jon Snow. You carry the future."

"If I'm going to do this for you, I need to know the truth!"

"About what?"

"Everything."

* * *

**The **_**Merman's Wrath**_

Ser Wylis' ship, the largest in the Manderly fleet, rocks heavily over the rough waves. Lord Tytos Brax, horribly seasick, vomits over the side. He is watched from a distance by two figures reclining at the rear of the ship. One, in familiar, tattered white robes, is Ser Vhagar Horpe. The shortest of his storied siblings, Vhagar is an ugly brute, with large, wiry sideburns. He looks over to his charge, whose stomach also struggles to cope with the stormy sea.

"Keep your dinner down, boy," he warns. "Your father wouldn't want you acting a weakling before your wedding. Not like that Western bitch."

Young Tywin Dondarrion nods enthusiastically, while forcing himself to stifle down bile rising in his throat. He looks at the sea behind them, thinking of his home far away. A nervous, lean, unattractive boy of ten-and-seven, Tywin has never been this far from Blackhaven. And now he is to be married. He wishes his father was with him to see it, but the Warden of the East is a busy man. He looks away from the sickening waves, pretending that he is miles away from cruel Ser Vhagar, and imagines what his wife will look like. A beautiful angel in the savage North, Tywin thinks. His father will find her to be a fitting match. But the boy will just be happy if she will love him.

Below deck, Arya and Gendry sit in the hold.

"I wish Ser Jaime had ridden with us," Arya broods. "I could've pushed him overboard."

"Yes, you certainly could have," Gendry stammers, eager to talk about anything but murder. "Are you looking forward to going home. How long has it been since you've been North? Think they'll give you Winterfell?"

"I was no lady when I left," Arya peels an apple with Needle. "I'm less of one now."

"You're more a lady than I am a lord. And my father was the king!"

"What?" Arya spits out flecks of apple. Gendry had forgotten she didn't know. "You're King Robert's son?"

"Eh, but a bastard," he shrugs. "My father might as well be Prince Rhaegar for all it matters." For once, Arya is stunned. All these years, all those dreams, and this simple, sincere smith's boy had been the son of a king all along. She shakes her head at the thought, and then hears a sneeze. The duo scrambles to peer behind a pile of crates, where they find, bundled away into a dark corner. It takes some time for Arya to recognize the haggard, shivering man. But when she does, she lunges at him – Theon Greyjoy.

"W...w…wait," Theon stammers as Arya seizes him by the collar and starts to pound his head into the nearest crate. Gendry rushes to stop the assault and, in her rage, Arya lashes out at him as well, knocking him down on the floor. She turns back to Theon, the frightened Ironborn panting and crawling away.

"You betrayed us all!" Arya yells. "My family is dead because of you!"

"I know, I know…" Theon stutters. "Please… please…. Sansa…."

"What about Sansa?" she kneels over him, pressing down on his throat. He gasps for breath, so she relaxes her grip, allowing him to suck in air and speak.

"Sansa, she's alive. I helped… I helped her escape, please believe me!"

Arya blinks slowly. She thought Jon was all she had left. And she couldn't bare to have him see her like this. But Sansa alive too? She steps back.

"Even if that's true, do you expect me to forgive you?"

"No," he bows his head, kneeling for mercy. "I just want to go home. Kill me there if you like. But let me die in Winterfell." Gendry watches cautiously as Arya looks the cowering man up and down.

"So be it. You will face trial before House Stark for your crimes. But do not expect mercy. The North remembers."

"I know," Theon's tears drip onto the moist floorboards. "I know, I know…"

* * *

**The Winter's Town**

Construction is heavily underway, as northern workers closely follow Bran's plans to expand the town to house both the armies and the endless stream of smallfolk seeking refuge under Winterfell's protection. Sansa Stark rides through the growing encampment to inspect the progress, with Brienne and Podrick at her side. They find Maester Rodry and Ser Kyle overseeing the progress from a model.

"How goes the work?" she asks.

"Very well, my lady," Rhodry nods, stroking his bushy grey mustache, his bald head wrinkling. "We make the most with limited materials, and there is no shortage of workers."

"Good. The forces of the other houses will be arriving before the month is out. We must be ready for their arrival."

"We shall," the maester assures her. "Your brother's plans account for far more troops than they could possibly hope to send."

"But are you sure it's wise to summon all the North's forces here, my lady?" Ser Kyle interrupts. "If the wall is breached, there will be no one left to defend the northern keeps."

"My brother assures me our enemy will follow him here, this will be the only battle that matters." Sansa glances to Rhodry. Like all the maesters she's known, he is skeptical of Bran's stories from beyond the Wall. She herself finds them hard to believe at times. But he knows better than to mention that matter here.

"What of our new defenses?" Brienne asks.

"Barricades, shelters and catapults are being erected for miles around Winterfell," Ser Kyle reports to the master-at-arms. If he or the other knights had taken issues with answering to a woman, none dared show it. He points our across the snow-coated landscape, where more workers can be seen.

"Carry on the good work," Sansa climbs back atop her horse. "Whatever is coming for us, we will be ready for it."

* * *

**Winterfell**

In the council chambers, a model of all Bran's plans has been constructed, set low to the ground so its designer can access it. The young man himself is carefully examining it from his wheelchair when Sansa enters. She notices him stiffen more than usual at her entrance. Crossing to a small dais, she pours herself a glass of wine, offering some to Bran.

He doesn't look up from the model. "I don't drink."

"Some would say you can never trust a man who doesn't drink," Sansa smiles.

"Many men have said that. Few of them have been trustworthy."

Giving up, Sansa simply pours herself an extra portion. "You've seemed on edge, of late."

"I have the entirety of human existence inside my head," Bran replies. "I think you can forgive me for being a little tense." Sansa laughs, but can see he is not joking. She moves to get closer to him, but he jerks away in his chair. As he swerves, the catspaw dagger slips from his robe and clatters across the floor. Recognizing it, Sansa quickly backs away.

"Bran… why do you have that?" she asks slowly.

"I can't be too careful," Bran says. "Sometimes, perhaps it is better not to know things."

"What do you mean?" Sansa asks, carefully picking up the dagger, all of Littlefinger's warnings whispering in her head. "You're frightening me."

"I've seen what you've done. You've schemed with Lord Baelish. Lied for him. Led him to power. And now you've sent him to murder Wyman Manderly and run away south with him. Do you even know half the things he's done?"

"You don't understand!" Sansa defends herself. "Everything I've done, I've done for our family! The Manderlys betrayed us!"

"No," Bran answers. "Littlefinger did. And you helped him."

"You mean…" Sansa is momentarily overwhelmed, sinking to the floor. "I'm so sorry. It's too late now…"

"No, I'm sorry," Bran wheels closer. In her eyes, he can see he has misjudged her. "I should have trusted you. But it's not too late."

"We can't warn them by raven. Their maester is a spy…"

"And Baelish is counting on that. But we don't need the maester's ravens," Bran takes his sister's hand. "We have other ways to fly."

* * *

**Beyond the Wall**

Jon, the sack of pods tied to his back, follows Root through the icy labyrinth until the sounds of shouting arise to guide them the rest of the way. He rushes towards them, only later noticing that the Children have disappeared back into the shadow. When he reaches the rest of the party, all hells have broken loose. A fierce standoff between the Brotherhood and Freefolk and the Red Priests is under way, with all weapons drawn. Coldhands, Beric and Thoros are desperately trying to defuse the situation.

"What is the meaning of all this?" Jon snaps back to the whole crowd.

"While you were gone, we started to explore the caverns!" Obara shouts. "There are children here, just boys, and these red bastards want to slaughter them!"

"They are White Walkers," High Priest Naan glares. "They must be exterminated, along with the other foul wretches that hide here from our Lord's light." His eyes look over Jon. Surely the man cannot know about the Heart Tree, he thinks. But those dark eyes say otherwise.

"They may be White Walkers, but they've done nothing wrong!" Jon protests. "We aren't here to kill children!"

"Their very existence is wrong!" the High Priest thunders. "'Where have you been, Jon Snow? What's that on your back? I know you worship the Old Gods of the Children of the Forest, not our true Lord of Light. Why don't you tell the party just who created the White Walkers?"

Jon has no reply. All eyes dart nervously about the frozen chamber, then down the pitch black passage to where the sleeping Walkers wait. Finally, Thoros of Myr steps forward, drawing his flaming blade.

"We can't do this," Beric implores his old friend.

"I'm sorry," Thoros shakes his head. "The Lord wills it."

Thoros pushes Beric out of the way. Jon stands aside, frozen with indecision, as the drunken priest marches into the passage. And then, a sound like a knife on wind and he stops with a jagged ice javelin piercing his chest. Thoros' sword drops, the flame extinguished, as his slain body crumples to the ground. Beric screams as two fully grown Walkers appear in the darkness, running towards them.

"Run!" Jon shouts, overwhelmed and panicking. Most of the party wastes no time in heeding that warning, fleeing the way they came in. But Naan and the priests engage the attackers. Jon rushes to join them, but Root appears again, grabbing his arm.

"Do not not hesitate! You must live, for all of us!"

Coldhands seizes his nephew and pulls him off down the corridor. High Priest Naan's flaming Valyrian blade slices through the first Walker, but more arrive and cut down several priests. At this, Root enters the fray, his magic holding off the attackers as he makes the slightest moment of contact with Naan. The High Priest considers turning his blade to the small, green creature, but ultimately decides against it, fleeing with his remaining followers as the Children hold off the Walkers and Root begins to conjure a spell, sending ominous lights reverberating through the glacial walls.

The Priests catch up with the rest of the party as they rush towards the entrance to the cavern, only to catch sight of movement in the shadows of the walls, as if they are alive with a thousand legs. Before anyone can call out, horrifying shapes begin to drop from the ceiling – ice spiders! Great, horrible crystalline beasts the size of hounds! One lands upon a member of the brotherhood, sinking frozen fangs into his skull. The party fights furiously, rushing madly to the light of the end of the tunnel, hacking their way through the beasts until at last they reach freedom.

The survivors burst back into the moonlight just in time, as the cave collapses with a thunderous roar behind them, sealing off both the Walkers' lair and once again hiding the Children and their Heart Tree, perhaps forever. Panting for breath, Jon examines what remains of their once mighty party – Himself, his uncle, Obara Sand, with Tormund and his daughters. Beric's Brotherhood is reduced to himself and four men: Anguy, Tom, Jack and the Hound. Naan has but three followers remaining: Duncan, Eres and Nevio.

"What now?" Tormund asks.

"We have what we came for," Jon composes himself, reclaiming leadership once more. "Now we go home."

* * *

**CREDITS**

_This episode leans heavily into the mythos of the world, planting important seeds (some literal). I hope it was worth the hype and didn't get confusing. As always, thanks for reading, and please leave any questions, comments or critiques in the reviews below! _


	16. Our Father's Feast

**S08E06 Our Father's Feast**

* * *

**Hornvale**

High in the mountains called the Western Hills, amid a deep pine forest sits the great stone keep of the storied and wealthy House Brax. After centuries of serving The Rock, the loyal vassals have been promoted to Warden of the West. With Lord Tytos in the capital, leadership of the Western loyalists falls to his brother, Ser Flement.

A tall knight, thin but strong, with stoic features and a scratchy beard, Flement's eyes are sunken and tired from the stress of war, his son Robert's captivity, and his pregnant wife's illness. He now stands on the ramparts, purple cape flowing in the winter wind, with his commander, Ser Lorrent Lorch and guest Ser Steffon Swyft.

"Word just came from Darkdell," Lorch reports. "They've been burnt, same as Silverhill, Wyndhall and the rest."

"All burnt," Flement scowls. "All but us."

"She wants to turn the others against you," Steffon observes.

"Indeed," the acting Warden turns grim. "Ser Lorrent. Evacuate Hornvale. Start a fire. And send ravens to the rest of the Houses, declaring we have been attacked."

"But, ser…"

"We will take shelter in the mines, like the others. Our unity cannot falter. This dragon queen wants to break us. Show her she's not the only one who knows fire."

* * *

**The Glass Gardens**

Alone in her room, Missandei stares despondently at an unfurled scroll on the table. There can be no mistake about it, she knows the writing of her queen. Today the Tournament of Our Father's Feast is to begin, and after months of negotiation and proclamation here in Oldtown, Daenerys has decided not to come. Missandei nearly cries out at a knock at the door. Swinging it open, she is relieved to find Ser Argilac waiting outside. His usually haunting, white robed visage has become a comfort.

"My lady, what's wrong?" She points to the scroll. The knight's large, scarred hands struggle to unroll it, but he reads it all the same. His face turns grimmer than usual. "Does anyone else know?"

"No," Missandei shakes her head. "How can I tell them? What will they do?"

"These people love you," Argilac says firmly, straightening the deaths-head moth pin that fastens his tattered cloak. "No matter what our queen does, they will not harm you. And if they try, they will learn the meaning of my family's words. Death Rides With Us."

* * *

**The Oldtown Arena**

The city's mighty arena is already full to bursting by the time Missandei arrives with Ser Jon Cupps and Lady Leyla. She is painfully nervous, even with Argilac close by her side. It feels as if someone may bump into her and the horrible secret will come tumbling out. Taking their space in the Lord's booth, she tries to focus on the bowmen preparing on the arena floor for the archery competition, but her mind cannot rest. At the other end of the booth, Gilly sits with Little Sam. The boy is awed by all the sights and sounds, but Gilly is overwhelmed. She has never seen so many people in all her life. She turns to Ser Gunthor Hightower, whose Oldtown Guardsmen maintain careful security throughout the festivities.

"Are you sure this is a place for Little Sam?" she asks.

"Of course!" Gunthor laughs. "This isn't war, no one is going to die. It's inspiring. One look at these champions and Sam there will grow up to be the finest knight you've ever seen!"

Gilly remains unconvinced, but she has lost her host's attention to the arrival of Lady Rhea. She supposes that the dashing knight will be retiring to his stepmother's quarters again this evening. That is not a matter that bares further thought, so she returns attention to the archers and to Little Sam, who is already mimicking their movement with a bow and arrow of air.

* * *

**Castlery Rock**

The war room is abuzz with commotion as the Small Counsel awaits their queen's return. At last, Daenerys Targaryen enters, in her imposing red-and-black battle gown. She immediately turns to her new Hand, Ser Damion Lannister.

"What is the matter, Lord Hand? My dragons have not disappointed you?"

"No, my queen. Many smallfolk have fled the mountains and flocked to us. We have seized new towns and holdfasts. But the report has come from the mountains. Hornvale burns."

"Not of my hand!" Daenerys insists.

"It seems that Ser Flement has proven a more capable warden than his fool of a lord brother ever cared to be," Lord Crakehall grumbles.

"You mean he burned his own home?"

"I fear he saw through our scheme," Damion sighs. "He now suffers alongside his followers, withdrawing his family and forces into the mines and crevices, where even your dragons cannot reach them."

"It could take years to root them from their strongholds by foot," Grey Worm reluctantly reports. "We do not know their maps."

"I cannot expect the Seven Kingdoms to bow before me if I cannot conquer all of just one!" Daenerys angrily seizes a jeweled unicorn token, taunted by its amethyst eyes. "We have Ser Flement's son, do we not?"

"He remains unmoved by such threats," Varys interjects. "Nor has his son considered my offers of loyalty. He is a proud boy, like his father and his namesake. May I remind you that we may yet make it to Oldtown. The Lady Missandei awaits there with the leaders of the Faith and the Reach…"

"To make me a queen at the bidding of bitter men?" Daenerys slams the token back to the table. "I will claim no authority but my own!" At that, Zatarra steps forward, silencing all others.

"Perhaps, my queen, it is time to turn our eyes North. The winter grows colder every day. None would dare challenge the authority of the savior who stops the Long Night." Daenerys mulls this over for a moment, looking to her advisors. All but Varys silently nod. Not all believe the legends, but whatever the nature of the threat beyond the wall, it's reality is clear.

"So be it," she declares. "Prepare my ships. We will sail before the week is out."

* * *

**White Harbor**

The ships from the South have begun to arrive. First to dock is _The Merman's Wrath_. Lord Manderly's family is already waiting at the docks, with a full display of armored knights on display. First to step off the ramp, Ser Wylis cries out with rumbling, joyous laughter as his youngest, Wylla, runs to him, his round wife Leona waddling swiftly after. Wynafred, however, maintains ladylike composure, scanning the arriving parties, trying to catch sight of her betrothed, young Tywin Dondarrion.

Arya and Gendry miss the reunions, remaining onboard the ship until all ceremony is done and Ser Gavin Locke can escort them to the Lord's chambers. Part of Arya, buried deep inside, still sniggers at the sight of Lord Wyman, a fatter and older version of his son, with twice as droopy a mustache.

"Quite the guests I must entertain these days," the old man chuckles, offering the hungry youths samples of the night's dinner, far too rich for Arya's taste. "The ghost of Ned Stark's daughter and the son of a king."

"What do you want?" Arya ignores formalities.

"I want many things my lady," Wyman replies. "I want peace. I want a good life for my granddaughters. I want to be remembered for more than my girth. But for now, I only want justice. For the two of you and your fathers and your families. I followed them to war and will serve their memory to my dying day."

"I heard tell you murdered Davos Seaworth!" Gendry protests.

"Not all is as it seems, my lord," Wyman's tone turns deadly serious. "My son is home. This mummer's farce is at last at its end."

Far from Wyman's chambers in Newcastle, Ser Jaime Lannister has chosen to stay instead in the city with Lord Brax, who is increasingly disturbed by the Skagosi warriors and their frightful unicorns which have taken up residence on the Manderly's isle. The irony of him cowering before the beast of his own sigil seems lost on the leering lord, and Jaime has already tired of his company. Now, at night, carefully having disposed of any Lannister regalia, he wonders the streets, seeking to avoid reminders of his last visit north, and the pain that it caused.

Tonight, he finds himself in the great forges of White Harbor, witness to a curious sight. All the smiths of the city toil away, hammering weapons out of a stranger source than any Jaime has ever seen – obsidian, or dragon-glass. As he is examining some such arrowheads, he is struck a light blow to the back of his head. Whirling around, he is confronted by an ancient knight, one-eyed and one-legged, who quickly notices his fair hair and missing hand.

"Yer' Jaime Lannister, ain't ye?" the old man squints. "Don't try lyin', I ain't telling anyone. Call me Bart. Why aren't you gallivanting about with the rest of the southerners?"

"What is all this?" Jaime avoids the question, instead gesturing to the dragon-glass.

"This? Oh, you summer child, this is the last stand against the Army of the Dead!"

"The Army of the…" Jaime laughs, but he sees Bart isn't joking.

"Yes, that's right. It's all real. You lot prance around in gilded armor, you get to pretend that the grumkins ain't real. 'Cause if they ain't real, they cain't hurt ya'. Must be an easy life. But you'll all be dead soon, if we don't win this war for you."

Slowly, a sense of dread begins to seep over Jaime. He knows Northerners. A stubborn, prideful and fearless lot. And this man seems the most of all three traits. And yet he can taste the fear that lays heavy over this city. What else could compel the Skags of all people to sail to the mainland with their armies and unicorns. Unicorns! They hadn't set foot in Westeros for centuries. Scarce of breath, he rushes back to his lodging to prepare a message to the capital. Surely now, he thinks, Cersei must listen. There can be no denying that a threat is coming, bigger than any squabbles over who will rule the North. And when it arrives, Jaime Lannister vows he will be on the right side.

* * *

**The Red Keep**

In the Small Counsel Chamber, Genna Lannister nervously folds a raven-scroll between her fingers, eyeing Queen Cersei from her seat at the head of the table. A table that is unnervingly empty, though Genna cannot complain that King Euron is finally gone from their presence.

"My aunt," Cersei speaks. "You have word from the West?"

"Much word, my queen. The dragons fly again, scorching the loyal holdfasts. And the Targaryen girl has formally responded to our petition. She refuses to ransom her former Hand, Tyrion Lannister, and has named your cousin, Ser Damion, in his place."

"Damn him!" Cersei cries out. "Damn her, damn them all! She does this to spite me! I should have had that pathetic little beast killed the moment Euron dragged him back here!" Genna attempts to calm her, to no avail. "Lord Arthur?" The young Master of Whisperers stands to attention. "I give you leave of my brother. Do with him what you will in your laboratories. Whatever pain you can inflict, so long as he feels every ounce!" Genna is unnerved by the smile Arthur grows at his queen's command.

"What of the other prisoner from Dragonstone?" he asks. "The red woman?"

"I had forgotten her," Cersei muses. "But I am in need of counsel. Her order has served my husband well. Bring her to me."

* * *

**The Citadel**

In the disciplinary cells, Samwell Tarly and Sarella Sand sit miserably.

"All my life, I wanted to be a maester," Sam groans. "And to think it was all a sham."

"No," Sarella shakes her head. "It's not. I'm sure you knew a great maester once, otherwise you'd never have come all this way."

"Maester Burton, at Horn Hill," Sam remembers fondly. "He was a fat old man with no hair, and he told me the most wondrous stories. He showed me the stars, and taught me how every plant and creature worked its way. And then, at the Wall… Maester Aemon. I doubt I'd be alive if it weren't for him."

"Marwyn was like that for me," Sarella sighs. "He traveled the known world, but would always stop at Sunspear with tales of wild people and ancient wonders no westerner had ever seen. He gave me this." She pulls a moonstone amulet from around her neck. "And now he's dead. Those bastards killed him because he didn't step in line."

"He rocked the boat too far."

"And if I ever get out of here, I'm going to rock their damned boat so hard the waves will wash them to sea."

They both jump at the sound of approaching footsteps, but when they look through the bars of the cell, they do not see a guard but a cloaked woman, her face shrouded, unlocking the door. Beneath her hood can be seen long, tangled hair woven with feathers and string. As the cell creaks open, she looks at them with unsettling orange eyes.

"The Lord of the Hightower sends his regards," she whispers.

"Who are you?" Sarella asks.

"A person of no importance. We must move quickly."

"No, I know you!," Sarella grabs at the woman's hood and tears it down, revealing her face. "You're Mallora Hightower! The Mad Maid!"

"A lovely name, isn't it?" Mallora glares at them, then beckons they follow her. "I don't know why, but my father trusts you. War is coming to Oldtown and there are things here that cannot fall into the wrong hands."

"What sort of things?" Sam asks.

"Those books you tried to steal? This time, we're going to steal them right."

"Wait!" Sam stops. "I can't leave the city without Gilly!"

"Gilly?" Mallora snaps. "Who's Gilly?"

"It's complicated," Sarella sighs. "Sam, find Gilly. We'll take care of the books." They part ways, and Sam rushes back through the halls, hiking up his robes around his ankles to move as quickly as he dares. He finds the nearest door out into the plaza. Stumbling beyond the great stone walls, he can hear the roar from the arena in the distance. Hanging close to the walls, he starts to run now, until he winds a corner and nearly crashes headlong into Pate.

"You!" It takes all his restraint not to strangle the novice right there. "You betrayed us!"

"Me?" Pate's face shows pure confusion. "You think I told the archmaesters? I swear it wasn't me! I only hid when I heard you cry out!"

Sam glares skeptically for a while longer, but his rival's face certainly seems sincere. He takes a step back. _If not Pate, then who? Who else knew of the plan?_ Slowly, the realization dawns on him. And he runs faster.

* * *

**Oldtown**

The tournament is in full swing. Today is the day of the melee, and the crowd roars with applause as the fiercest knights in the city brawl in mock battle before them. It has come down to Lord Tommen Costayne (known as "The Black Rose" for his Summer Islander and Tyrell blood), Ser Norris Dunn and Ser Lyle Crakehall - the Strongboar. Missandei watches as Lord Costayne disarms Ser Norris, before beginning to circle the raging Strongboar. She turns to Ser Argilac, who watches intently.

"The Strongboar will win," he muses. "Lord Tommen has skill, but the Crakehalls are berserkers. They fight like the beasts of their mark. No man of the Three Towers has ever seen a boar before."

"That isn't good for us, is it?" Missandei asks, for the Strongboar is Qyburn's champion. "These people believe the gods bless the victors of such contests."

"There is still the joust," Argilac reassures her. "That's what really matters."

"Could you beat him?"

"I suppose."

"Then why didn't you join the melee?"

"My father did not raise me for tourneys," the grim knight shakes his head. "Only to kill."

Nearby, the booth reserved for the members of the Faith butts up against the booth where Qyburn and the visiting loyalists recline. The Hand's attention however, is on his little bird, Alys, who has delivered him a scroll, marked with the seal of House Harlaw of the Iron Islands.

"You bring good word, my dear," Qyburn smiles, rewarding the girl with a lemon-cake before she disappears back into the crowd. His plan is coming together. He turns his attention back to the melee. As Ser Lyle at last defeats his final foe, Qyburn grins across the partition to the High Septon.

"It seems the Seven shine on the Throne today."

"Has not House Crakehall sided with our true queen in the West?"

"Ser Lyle has renounced his treacherous father," Qyburn smiles as the crowds cheer for his captain. "He is only the Strongboar now. As for you, I hear whispers from the West that your new queen may not be as devout as you claim. They say she sacrifices to the Red God, now."

"Some men also say she's sprouted wings herself and breathes fire," the High Septon scoffs. "It does not become a Hand to spread wild rumors."

Meanwhile, Gilly and Little Sam have left the Hightower booth to peruse a luxurious table of snacks when she hears a familiar voice whisper her name. Turning, she sees Samwell lurking in the shadows.

"Sam, where have you been?"

"There's no time to explain," he pulls them after him. "We're leaving, now!"

"But Gunthor…"

"I don't think Gunthor is our friend anymore. You have to trust me, things are about to get very, very bad here!" And so the small family disappears into the crowd, once again on the run.

* * *

**The Hightower**

That night, in the Lord's chambers, Leyton Hightower sits in once-luxurious robes amidst the maze of cluttered artifacts, ancient texts and bizarre machinations of gears and pulleys that now take up most of the space in his quarters. He is deep in thought when he hears his secret passage grind open.

"Mallora, why are you back? Is something wrong?" he asks, without looking. But it is not Mallora standing in the hidden doorway. It is Qyburn, Hand to the Queen.

"I like what you've done with the place," the old man quips. At the sound of a stranger's voice, Leyton whirls around with surprising speed for an old man, brandishing a long dagger with an orange-jeweled hilt.

"Who are you?" he growls. "And how did you get here? Answer before I send you flying from the window!"

"Have the years warped me so much, Leyton?" Qyburn asks. With slow recognition, the mage examines the ex-maester's face until long-forgotten memories are jogged.

"Qyburn? What are you doing here? You were driven out decades ago!"

"If you've gotten that to burn for you," the Hand points at the glass candle in the center of the room, "then you should already know."

"Of late, my mind has strayed to higher matters than the politics of this land."

"Perhaps that is wise. But the decisions made here will affect us all in the end," Qyburn examines the tomes of prophecy. "We must join together to face the coming storm."

"If you are here to speak Cersei's words, I want none of it!" Leyton dismisses him.

"No, I am here because we both share the same vision. You are one of the few men I ever knew who understood the higher mysteries. The Doom of Valyria set back humanity by centuries. We cannot allow it to happen again here."

"My daughter had visions of such a doom," Leyton says grimly, "and so we have prepared. If the Ironborn sail to Oldtown, we will be ready."

"Perhaps," Qyburn eyes the great contraption his old friend has built into the Hightower itself. The gears and pulleys block most of the window, but he can still point down to the streets below. "But are you aware of what the Faith plan to do with their pet tournament?"

* * *

**The Desert of Dorne**

The scorching sun burns down on the small party trekking on camelback over the seemingly endless dunes. Leading the way, Garin and Elia Sand navigate North, while Arianne rides with Ser Rolland Storm. They have traded their Martell clothes for blue and silver garbs of the princess' dear friends in House Fowler, her scars covered and shielded from the sun by heavy head-wrappings.

"Gods, this sun is hot," Rolland groans. "I'm starting to think I hate this damn kingdom."

"Once we reach the mountains, the climate will be more to your liking," Arianne smiles. The huge knight may grumble, but she knows his loyalty never falters. Even when her own countrymen betrayed her, the fugitive warrior from the Stormlands had proven her most fierce defender. But what is there now to defend, she thinks, staring across the endless dunes? Her throne gone, her beauty destroyed. Now she too is just a nomad, no different from the Bastard of Nightsong, with no future to look forward to.

"Who are these Fowlers?" Rolland asks.

"Close friends of my uncle and his daughters, and no friend to House Yronwood. We'll be safe there, for what it's worth."

"And then what?"

"I don't know, Rolland," Arianne shakes her head. "I don't know…" And so they ride on, plodding across a sea of sand to the mountains on the far horizon – two bastards, an orphan and a deposed princess in search of a destiny.

* * *

**The Arbor**

Yara Greyjoy walks in chains, head hung low and marked with bruises, gifts left by her uncle's wrath at discovering Theon's escape. She had always wanted to visit the Arbor. And now here at last she stands, and it is on fire. The Ironborn raiders following Ser Harras Harlaw and the restless smallfolk who flocked to him have run amuck across the island. Now she is dragged along behind King Euron and his loyal lieutenants, the Codd brothers. Upon reaching the great hall of House Redwyne, she finds herself witness to an even more shocking tableau.

The nobles of the island have been stripped naked and are now forced to wait upon the Ironborn and their newfound allies. She remains silent as Euron sits her down with him at the head of the feast with Ser Harras himself. The tall, stern man remains unhappy, even as his men drunkenly frolic in the hall.

"If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought this was mine own doing," Euron laughs, as Bloodless Tom Codd and the red priest Moqorro sit with them.

"My king," Harras acknowledges, though Yara notes he does not stand in reverence. "You are missing an eye since we last met."

"The Lannister imp stabbed it out when we took Dragonstone," Euron fumes at the memory. Scorning the famed Arbor wine, he instead drinks from his own flask of strange nightshade, leaving his lips a pale blue.

"It makes your visage twice as fearsome," Bloodless Tom interjects.

"Eh," Euron turns to Yara, pulling up his eyepatch to reveal the scar beneath. "What do you think, niece? Does it add to my terror?" When she does not respond, he shoves the nightshade in her face, and it smells as bitter as it looks. "Mayhap a drink will loosen your tongue?" He forces the acrid blue fluid into her mouth. Squirming out his grasp, she spits it back out, splattering across his fine black-and-gold clothes. At that slight, all in the room freeze, turning to the king. But instead of offense, Euron laughs.

"Play on! Play on!" the king shouts, and the festivities resume. "My niece may have some kraken in her yet."

"It is good to have you here again," Harras shifts to matters of war. "With our forces combined, we have an armada to take Oldtown."

"I suppose we would," Euron muses. "But we won't."

"What?" Harras instinctively reaches for his weapon, but Bloodless Tom draws his dagger first, holding it inches from the knight's face.

"Don't forget you talk to your king," the pale man snarls.

"You promised us Westeros!" Harras still protests.

"And we have Westeros!" Euron points to his crown of writing steel tentacles with a lion's head. "I am the king. The Iron Throne is ours."

"And yet I see now you are here to run Cersei's errands," Harras spits defiantly. Euron, unwilling to draw attention to the proceedings, does not lash out, but leans across the table until his blue lips are inches away from the knight's face.

"You are a fool," he whispers. "A useful one, but that is all. You want a fortress for yourself? Take your best men to land. Fuck off to Highgarden. Do whatever you want there, but stay out of my way." At that, he bids the Codds escort Ser Harras from the hall and turns back to the festivities. "Where are the lord and lady of this house?"

"Lord Redwyne was slain in battle, my king," Bloodless Tom reports, "Along with one of his sons, though we cannot say which. The other is in hiding, somewhere in the fields, they say. But Paxter's brother is here."

Soon Ser Desmond Redwyne and his wife Denyse Hightower shiver pathetically before the king. Yara watches suspiciously as Euron has them wrapped in comforting tapestries his men have torn from the walls.

"I know, ser, that words can not mend the acts of these foul men. Soon they will all be brought to justice, I assure you. Thanks to me, your family is safe. I trust you will spread the word of who has worked your salvation?" The frightened nobles nod enthusiastically and are hurried away. Euron turns back to Yara and smiles, tauntingly. Then slowly he joins the dancers in the hall, but as they move and the music plays, Euron seems to dance out of synch, as if to a different tune, silent and dark.

* * *

**Oldtown**

At long last, the tournament joust has come to an end. This is a great relief to Ser Baelor Hightower, who has always been bored by such competitions. He smiles, though, as Ser Axyll of the Starry Sept, champion of the Faith, crowns Missandei of Naath his Queen of Love and Beauty. The girl deserves it, he thinks. In all his time ruling in his father's stead, he never hosted a more charitable guest. And it seems the festivities have ended none too soon, as grim storm clouds have appeared.

Shielding his pet lizard from the first drops of rain, Baelor rises to depart. But his wife Rhonda bids him stay, as a commotion is forming in the arena. The crowds have stormed the field, following the High Septon to the champions platform.

"What's happening?" he asks.

"I don't know," Rhonda shakes her head. "But these omens bode not well."

"Good people of the Reach!" The High Septon can be heard calling out. "On this, the most holy of days, the Seven have spoken through their champion! For too long, we have suffered the rule of a false queen, an apostate, who destroyed the Sept of Baelor! But we need not suffer another day. For the Seven have been merciful, and granted us a new queen, a good queen, come again as Aegon from across the narrow sea to liberate us! By the will of the Father, the one true ruler of Westeros has come home! Daenerys Targaryen!"

At that, all eyes look to the sky. But nothing is there. A sense of dread overwhelms Baelor as he looks down to Missandei, suddenly frozen like a deer in the archer's sight. As the silence drags on, unrest begins to stir and the High Septon looks for Missandei, but she and her guardians have disappeared.

"Where is Gunthor!" Baelor hisses. "He must put an end to this!"

But as if summoned by a roar of thunder unleashing a downpour of rain, another figure appears, shrouded by robes. As he lowers his hood, Baelor recognizes his own father, Lord Leyton. As the old man makes himself seen for the first time in a decade, the arena is silenced.

"You fools!" he shouts. "The Dragon Queen is not coming! You have been led astray! A great doom is coming, and she will not save you! Those warped old men with their grey robes and crystals will not save you! Nor the Maesters in their citadel! I know the old ways, and I alone have prepared!"

"You speak blasphemy, my lord!" Ser Axyll steps toward Leyton, drawing his blade. But with a hushed incantation and a wave of his hand, the lord sends him flying back to the ground.

"So it is true, then?" the High Septon looks down from the pedestal. Suddenly, the Oldtown Guard begins to appear. "You confess to crimes of sorcery so brazenly?"

"I have not forgotten the powers gifted to us to protect this land! What powers has your god given you?" At that, all chaos breaks out in the stadium. Baelor stands helpless as the Guardsmen struggle to control the crowd and surround Leyton. Elsewhere, he sees Qyburn cut off from the Strongboar and seized by more guards.

"You stand condemned by your own words!" the Septon yells above the clamor. "Arrest this man!"

Leyton finds himself closed off by spears. He raises his hands, but the guards part to allow the entrance of Ser Gunthor Hightower. From a new sheath, he draws a blindingly gleaming blade.

"Valyrian steel? I must say I'm impressed, father," Gunthor smiles sickeningly. "I always thought you were just mad. But this? _Vigilance_ reforged? I have to say thank you. It's too bad I have to arrest you as well."

"You can't do this, Gunthor! I am your Lord!" Leyton looks for aid as the guards close in. "I am your father!"

"I serve the good of Oldtown," the captain shakes his head, as heavy rain pours down through his short, white-blonde hair. "And you threaten our peace."

"You would have them serve the Targaryen?"

"No. We will do what we have always done. Let the other Houses play their game of thrones and burn down their own holds in the chaos they create. And when the dust clears, the Hightowers will stand above them all."

* * *

_**Aegon's Wings**_

Aboard Daenerys' flagship, a great three-decked galley of the Farman fleet, now brandishing a great iron dragon at its bow and huge red sails, leads the Targaryen armada across the waters as it cuts across the sea. Looking out over the water, with the dragons soaring overhead, Daenerys lets the ocean breeze wave through her hair and feels free again. Her Queensguard is at attention behind her, along with Varys, Grey Worm and Zatarra. At her sides stands her Master of Ships, Lord Sebaston Farman, a tall blonde man with a neat beard, in vivid blue sailor's garb. He peers to the horizon through a far-eye.

"My queen, there is a fleet upon the horizon!" he reports, handing her the instrument so she may look for herself. Through the small hole, she sees a series of elegant ships fast approaching.

"They bare our sigil," she recognizes. "Turn towards them." As the larger fleet nears the smaller, she begins to make sight of the figures on its decks. A tall Summer Islander in feathered robes. A young man with shocking blue hair. And an old man, waving frantically to signal to her, she knows, just to her.

All others had given up hope, but not Daenerys. And now, risen from the dead bearing gifts from the fair islands of the southern seas, Ser Jorah Mormont is before her eyes once more. No longer does she doubt her choice. This omen surely bears well, she has found the right path. And Daenerys Targaryen cries out for joy.

* * *

**CREDITS**


	17. Visions in Flame

**S08E07 Visions in Flame**

* * *

_**Aegon's Wings**_

In the flagship's hold, Ser Jorah Mormont examines an elegant suit of armor, black and red, with a pristine white cloak. He runs his hand over the smooth, cold surface, thinking back to the days, long ago, when he was still a knight in good standing. The whole wealth of his house couldn't have bought such a suit.

"Will you have it?" Daenerys Targaryen asks. He looks back to her. The girl he has loved for so long has grown decades it seems since they parted. Now, in her own red gown, she truly looks every inch a queen.

"It would be my honor," he kneels.

"Then rise, my Lord Commander, for there is great trial ahead of us. Lord Clifton says we will soon arrive at Bear Island." Daenerys can see Jorah tremor at the name.

"I serve at your command, khaleesi." He cannot yet imagine how his home has changed in the years since he left. He cannot even say who rules House Mormont.

"Will they have you?"

"They will have you, if you answer the call of their King in the North. And if he keeps his word to bend the knee once you deliver support."

"Jon Snow will keep his word." Daenerys affirms. Jorah feels a pang in his heart to hear the way she speaks that name.

"If he is anything like his father, he will. Ned Stark was honorable to a fault. If this Snow gave you his word, he will keep it." His hands come to rest on the sword _Heartsbane_, at his side, as he fulfills his own vow to Samwell Tarly. Like it or not, it is time to go home.

* * *

**The Bay of Ice**

It is early morning and the Targaryen fleet has stalled in block ice. The entire bay is frozen over, much to Jorah's shock. Lord Clifton has dropped anchor, their ships can go no further. Now, the ice is crowded with disembarking crew and soldiers. Daenerys, wrapped in heavy fur, steps cautiously out onto the ice, Jorah steadying her. She hopes there will be shelter for her dragons on this island, for the frigid northern sea has not been to their liking. She can see, however, that not all of her army is so eager to exit the ships. The Dothraki and the horses recoil at the prospect of stepping foot on the frozen sea, and Jorah's sellsail crew grumbles at their new destination.

"This godsforsaken waste is no place for my ships," mutters Sandro Qo, who has reluctantly traded his feathered pirate's kit for heavy wool. "Had you told me we were coming here, Hightower, you'd have paid a much higher price."

"Perhaps," young Humfrey Hightower smiles, his dyed blue hair standing out a mile away in the endless expanse of white. "Or perhaps I could have found a crew that didn't turn craven at the slightest chill."

"Incoming riders!" a sentinel calls out. Ser Jorah and the Queensguard move to surround Daenerys as two horses approach cautiously. Their riders, a man and a woman in old, rusted mail and fur, look over the bizarre scene suspiciously.

"What's all this?" the man barks, bald and bearded. Jorah opens his mouth, but Daenerys steps forward first.

"I am Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains, the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."

"We serve Jon Snow, the King in the North!" the woman barks.

"And I have come here on his request," Daenerys dips her head respectfully. "May I speak to the lord of this island?"

"The lady," the man corrects her. Daenerys smiles at that. "We will take you to our lady. But your army must stay here. For now."

* * *

**Bear Island**

The doors swing open to the great hall of the Bear Den, and the two sentinels escort Daenerys in, alongside Jorah, Kovarro, Grey Worm, Zatarra and two Queensguard. Jorah's heart falters to see the girl sitting at the head of the chamber. He can only identify her by her age – his cousin Lyanna was but a child of 3 when he had fled his home. Now, he thinks, is she the only Mormont left? What has become of the place since he left?

"What is all this, Morgan?" the young lady demands from the bald man. "I hear of a great fleet trapped by ice in our bay. Who are they?"

"The queen Daenerys Targaryen and her army," Morgan Liddle reports.

"Has the South claimed a new queen so quickly?" Lyanna mocks. "I hadn't noticed."

Indignant, Daenerys steps forward. "I am Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons…"

"We know all that already!" Morgan barks. The Queensguard knights draw their swords, but their queen bids them to calm as Jorah rushes forward.

"Lyanna!" he shouts. But the lady of Bear Island looks at him inquisitively.

"Do I know you, ser knight?" she asks. Jorah's spirits plummet and he steps back slowly.

"No, your grace," he says, crestfallen. Morgan Liddle walks nearer to him, inspecting his features. Jorah sees the recognition in his eyes. The man had come down from the mountains to Bear Island when he was still lord here. But he says nothing, and his lady makes no further note of the matter.

"Whatever lands you may rule, Daenerys, Mother of Dragons, you are in the North now," Lyanna insists, unflinching. "And I am sure you have already been informed, we have our own king. Jon Snow."

"I have met your king," Daenerys regains a diplomatic attitude. "He petitioned my aid against the enemies beyond the Wall. I have come to fulfill that promise."

"What do you bring to fight the Army of the Dead? Dragonglass?"

"No," Daenerys smiles, triumphantly. "I bring dragons."

* * *

**The Bay of Ice**

On the inland side of the island, Jorah, Kovarro, Grey Worm and Zatarra ride back onto the frozen water alongside Lady Lyanna and her entourage. Across the expanse, Jorah can see tents set up and teams of men and women at work, attempting to break apart the ice. Morgan Liddle rides beside him. As they near the largest camp, he leans over.

"I know who you are, you bastard," he growls. "When do you plan on telling her?"

"Does she think me dead?"

"Most do. Most would kill you if they knew who you were. The North remembers, Jorah. Your disgrace is not forgotten."

"Then let me stay a ghost," Jorah says as they reach their destination and dismount.

"So long as you don't call me Middle Liddle," Morgan grumbles.

"Middle Liddle!" A huge old man with a belly like a boulder stomps across the ice towards them. Morgan grimaces, as the man notices Lyanna and bows. "And my lady."

"Lord Hugo Wull," Lyanna nods, affirmingly. "We have visitors."

"That I can see. Call me Big Bucket, if you like! I don't care much for lords!" the mountain leader clasps Jorah's hand in a crushing grip. "Have we met?"

Jorah need not answer, as the sound of massive wings can be heard overhead. Shouts of terror and awe begin to ring out and he looks up to see the three dragons circling overhead. Lyanna is unmoved, but the Big Bucket's jaw drops. Daenerys brings Drogon to rest on the ice directly before the camp. As she dismounts and approaches Lyanna, most of the crowd backs away in nervous reverence. But not Lord Wull.

"Now that's a helluva beast to ride to battle!" he shouts.

"Daenerys Targaryen!" Grey Worm proclaims from his horse. "True queen of Westeros!"

"Jon Snow came to me to request help in fighting the War for the Dawn!" Daenerys speaks. "I come to fulfill that promise. The night is dark and full of terrors. We must stand together against what it will bring!" The Big Bucket bows as deeply as his belly will allow, a huge grin creeping though his hairy face.

"Ain't no king nor queen visited the mountains in a hundred years. We're honored to host yee. Those things really breathe fire?" he points at the dragons. "Cause we're gonna need a helluva a lot of it."

* * *

**White Harbor**

The Grand Hall of Newcastle is overflowing with guests assembled for a massive feast. From the balconies above the hall, Gendry and Arya watch the lords, ladies and merchants dine in their regal attire.

"Do you really think we could be down there with the rest of them, one day?" Gendry asks. "Once everyone knows who we are. Me in black and gold, with little stags on my doublet, and you... What are the Stark colors, anyway? Just... grey?"

"My place will never be there," Arya says, distantly, biting through an orange peel. "I wasn't a lady before. Now I never will be."

Below in the Hall, Jaime Lannister nervously picks at his dinner, more focused on the vicious glances he receives from the Northerners surrounding him. He looks down the table to see Wynafryd Manderly shamelessly flirting with her betrothed, Tywin Dondarrion. She barely seems fazed by the young heir's ominous guardian, Ser Vhagar Horpe. But Ser Vhagar is distracted by Lord Brax, who is trying and failing to buy the renowned knight into his own service.

All attention is pulled to the doors of the hall when they swing open, revealing a newly arrived retinue led by a man Jaime had thought he would never see again – Petyr Baelish. With him are Yohn Royce and six knights of the Vale.

"You have some nerve coming here, Littlefinger!" Lord Wyman barks from the front of the hall as Manderly guards encircle the arrivals.

"I am here on behalf of the Lady Sansa Stark," Baelish smirks.

"Will the lady herself attend?" Mycah Manderly asks, eagerly.

"No," Baelish snaps back. "I think you should understand her reluctance." Reluctantly, Wyman waves the guards away, and the men of the Vale join the feast. This bodes poorly, Jaime thinks. Nothing good ever follows Littlefinger.

That night, even the wildest revelers have taken to their quarters to sleep. But Tywin Dondarrion lies awake in his bed. The enormity of his impending wedding dawns upon him, and he cannot sleep. Were he home, in Blackhaven, he would go for a walk on the ramparts, under the stars. But here, Ser Vhagar is on guard outside his door. Suddenly, he jumps up at the sound of grinding rocks.

Frantically lighting the candle by his bed, he looks up to see another candle slowly entering the room from a black chasm where a shelf had been a moment earlier. The flickering lights illuminate the beautiful face of his betrothed, in a silken green nightgown.

"H..h..how did you get here?" he stammers.

"Our castle has many passages," Wynafryd smiles secretively. She sets her candle down and, with a shrug of her shoulders, disrobes, the candlelight dancing over her bare, voluptuous body. Tywin's face turns beet-red in the dark.

"W…w…what do you want?"

"Oh, I do hope you aren't too foolish to not know that answer," she laughs, climbing into the bed. Slowly, she blows out each candle, plunging the room back into blackness.

"But we're to be married," Tywin struggles to process.

"My grandfather is a schemer," she whispers in the dark as he feels the warmth of a woman for the first time. "I do not trust him. Our marriage will make us the most powerful family in Westeros. I'm not taking any chances..."

* * *

**Beyond the Wall**

The straggling, weary remainder of Jon's party travels south on the frozen Frostfang River, under the cover of a night that has not ended for weeks. Now, they stop for an all too brief rest, knowing they are but a day's journey from the Bay of Ice, and safety. Jon, however, cannot sleep, and instead sits with his uncle, who no longer seems to need rest.

"Things used to be so clear," he looks to the stars. "But now… the Red Priests wanted to murder boys. But those boys will grow up to be White Walkers. And the Children… they created the Walkers! And now they want me to plant their seeds and restore their power? How do I know who to trust? Whose side to be on?"

"Do you trust me?" Coldhands asks. Jon looks into his uncle's lifeless blue eyes. Had they always seemed so haunting? So… threatening? He cannot answer. "You must learn to chart the right path on your own, Jon. I cannot go with you further. I cannot pass the Wall."

Suddenly, all fear is gone and Jon wants again only to stay and fight beside his uncle, the ranger, the hero. "What about the Bay? If it's frozen over…"

"If the Bay of Ice is frozen, we have much worse things to worry about," Coldhands shakes his head. Nothing left to say, Jon walks off to be alone, but instead stumbles across Beric, sitting and staring up at the stars and aurora.

"The lights seem brighter than before," the old lord muses, to no one in particular. "And redder. Perhaps they dance for Thoros. He guided me for so long. But is this the purpose he saved me for? To exterminate these…things? And did I fail?"

"It is no weakness, what you did," Jon assures him.

"Isn't it? What sacrifice is too great against the fate of the world. What is a few beastly children against an endless night? Endless winter? Endless death?" He rubs the hole where his eye once was. "Though I can't say that endless life is much better."

The words of Maester Aemon ring through Jon's head. _Kill the boy and let the man be born. _He looks up to see a glimmer of daylight on the horizon. Beric notes it as well, and smiles.

"We may yet see another day after all."

* * *

**King's Landing**

Lady Genna Lannister finds Queen Cersei sitting upon the Iron Throne, looking more distraught than she has ever seen her niece. She sees servants are constructing what looks like a massive bonfire in the center of the hall, Ser Gregor depositing huge loads of branches on the pile. Genna hurriedly scampers past the undead knight.

"What's all this?" She demands an explanation, and Cersei points to a parchment discarded on the floor. Reading it, she sees a message from Jaime, imploring that the Northern warnings of an approaching threat are true, and bidding the crown send their aid.

"Surely he's gone as mad as the rest of them!" she looks up, but then, alarmed, turns to see Ser Dalton and Ser Andrik of the Queensguard escorting the red woman from the dungeons, to the foot of the Iron Throne. "What do you want with her?"

"My husband says your god grants true visions, witch," Cersei speaks to Melisandre, ignoring her aunt. "I wish for a vision of my own. Show me the truth of my brother's warning. Show me beyond the Wall."

* * *

**Bear Island**

In the Great Hall, a sparse dinner has been prepared. Daenerys sits with Lord Clifton, Zatarra and Ser Humfrey at Lady Mormont's table, along with the leaders of the mountain clans, Big Bucket among them. She likes what she has seen of these Northeners so far, but is all too aware of the side-glances they give to her dark-skinned followers. They have clearly never seen the likes of the Unsullied or Dothraki before, much less the Southern Islanders.

"We welcome your help," Lyanna is saying, "but we have no supplies to feed your armies, much less your dragons."

"We brought our own victuals with the fleet," Lord Clifton assures her.

"But what of Jon Snow?" Daenerys asks. "Where is your king?"

"He journeyed beyond the Wall," Lyanna answers, reluctantly. "Nothing has been heard from him sense." Caught off guard by this revelation, Daenerys turns to Zatarra.

"Build your fires. I must see him!"

Soon, a small group huddles around a blazing bonfire, in the midst of the frigid forest outside. Only her advisors, a score of the most faithful converts in her army, and a few curious Northerners have come to watch as Zatarra speaks strange words into the raging fire.

"It is ready, my queen," Zatarra beckons she approach. Daenerys steps barefoot through the snow, barely feeling the crippling heat as she nears the fire. "Open your mind and your soul to our lord. Let him flow through you." The priestess looks up to see the sparks fade up into the stars. "R'hllor, show your chosen one the truth!"

Suddenly, it seems as if the fire reaches out towards Daenerys in an embrace. Her eyes burn and she sees through the flames. She sees Jon, walking with strange, frightening men in a frozen valley. Her heart goes out to him, but she is pulled away. She sees, in horror, a vast army of dead men, marching through the mountains and wood towards the Bay of Ice. Then she looks up into the sky, and sees another face in the flames. A face, it seems, that can see her, too. A face she has never seen, but somehow recognizes at once. Cersei Lannister.

* * *

**King's Landing**

Cersei screams and throws herself away from the fire ablaze in the Hall, onto the ground, Genna rushes to her side, but the queen motions her away, instead beckoning to Melisandre.

"That was her," Cersei gasps. "That whore, that witch, the dragon queen. She's there! She saw me!"

"Impossible," Melisandre insists.

"I could feel it!" Cersei shouts. "We will not go North!" Melisandre backs away, but Cersei seizes her, eyes ablaze with the fiery vision. "I once had a prophecy uttered over me, as a child. That another queen, younger, more beautiful, would destroy me. I had not seen her face until today. Now, tell me, witch, can such creeds be dispelled?"

"Perhaps…perhaps…" Melisandre struggles to regain composure. Even from Stannis, she had not seen such rage. Nor such fear. "This new queen would have to be killed."

"What did you see?" Genna begs for an answer. Cersei slowly releases Melisandre and turns to her aunt.

"I saw everything. It's all true. All the madmen that we mocked and scorned, the parlor tricks and mummer's games. The stories you used to tell me to scare me to sleep. No, Jaime isn't mad. The dead march on the Northmen and they will all be devoured. But we will not go to their aid. Let the Targaryen brat be swallowed up with the rest of them. And then we will burn them all, Euron and I, even if we have to scorch the whole Seven Kingdoms to ashes." She clutches her swollen stomach, thinking of the child to come. "And then we will rule them all at last. As it was always meant to be. Set fires on the ramparts! The dead will not be silent for long."

* * *

**Bear Island**

Daenerys violently turns away from the fire and Jorah rushes to her side.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"It's all true…" she whispers, processing all she has seen. "And above them all… I saw Cersei. And Jon. The dead are nearly upon him. Prepare the men for battle!"

"You mean to march against the dead?" Jorah is incredulous.

"March, yes, and fly. They are just men. They will burn the same as any other." With that, she turns and marches away, back towards the lights of the holdfasts. Zatarra steps closer to Jorah, and he backs away. He is not fond of this new advisor.

"This is a grave undertaking," she whispers. "We ought seek the blessing of R'Hllor. Surely there are unbelievers here, criminals we may sacrifice to his light." Jorah recoils at the thought. He has heard of such things. But not here. Not his queen.

"Half our men are unbelievers," he dismisses her. "There will be no burnings."

"Then what would you have me do?" she asks.

"Pray harder."

* * *

**The Manderly Sept**

All the dignitaries are assembled in the city's sept for the wedding. Tywin stands at the altar, in his finest clothes, all black with a gleaming purple lightning bolt embroidered across his chest. He nervously awaits the appearance of his bride, trying to dispel the glowing but still unnerving memories of her nightly visits to his bed.

Lord Brax has grown impatient with the proceedings. He nervously scans the crowd, looking for the rest of the Manderly family.

"Where are the children?" he hisses to Jaime, who is trying to ignore the boorish lord. "Where is the septon?" He turns instead to Ser Vhagar. "Go to my guards. Something is wrong here. Find the children."

Vhagar discreetly stands to leave as the band begins to play a new song. At first, Jaime does not recognize it. But as it plays on, his eyes widen in alarm. This is no wedding march. It is a dirge, written to commemorate the Red Wedding. He reaches for a sword at his side that is not there, no weapons are permitted in the Sept. As unrest grows, the doors to the sept swing open. But there is no wedding party. Only armored Manderly guards led by Ser Davos Seaworth.

"What is the meaning of this?" Petyr Baelish leaps to his feet, shocked.

Ser Marlon is equally surprised. He leans across to his brother. "What are you doing? You cannot bring weapons in here!" But Wyman ignores him.

"Can you not recognize deception, Littlefinger?" the fat lord's voice booms. "This is not a wedding. This is a trial."

"Your trial," Davos glares. Lord Baelish storms angrily to the front of the Hall as the southern guests begin nervously looking for an exit.

"On what grounds?" Baelish shouts. "You besmirch this sacred ground!"

"Worse sins have been committed in a sept this winter than to demand justice," Ser Wylis growls. The Manderly troops stomp their tridents upon the ground.

"You stand accused of many crimes, of which I can testify to," Wyman removes a scroll from the folds of his robes. "And I hold here sworn reports from Lady Sansa and Lord Bran Stark that you murdered Lady Lyssa Arryn of the Vale and how it was your own hand that has been played to betray Ned Stark and sink our kingdoms into war!"

"Bran Stark has gone mad! This is well-known! His sister has fallen sway to his ramblings!" He looks frantically about for a defender, but even Yohn Royce solemnly shakes his head. With all eyes on Littlefinger, no one sees Vhagar Horpe remove a concealed dagger and slash the throat of the nearest guard, tossing their trident to the crowd. And then all chaos consumes the sept. But Jaime wants no part of this. He drops to his knees, hands over his head, and prays Wyman Manderly has more mercy than Walder Frey.

* * *

**Newcastle**

In the shadowy secret passages behind the walls of the Manderly's keep, Petyr Baelish holds a torch high above his head. Tytos Brax follows close behind with two of his men and Ser Vhagar through the moist, stuffy corridor.

"How do you know these paths, Baelish?" Tytos coughs.

"This island is full of secrets," the schemer replies, disdainfully. "I simply determined how much gold was required to unlock them." He halts, suddenly. "This is where the children will be kept. Do what you will with them. And do not forget your debt to me." With that, he hurries away into the darkness. Brax looks to Vhagar and his men.

"We take Wylis' girl," he orders, but the knight is hesitant.

"What of my master?"

"The Manderlys have him. We can negotiate for his safety once we secure our own."

"I could have retrieved him had I not saved you," Vhagar sneers.

"And you will be well-compensated," Brax hisses. "Now will you get the brat or not?"

"It will be a simple matter. But what of the others?"

"White Harbor must learn the price of defiance. Give them swift deaths."

Outside the doors to the children's chamber, Arya and Gendry wait, armed with _Needle_ and hammer. They have been left to guard the door, despite holding little details on why. The tension between them is razor-sharp. Suddenly, a sound of scraping stone and screams breaks the silence. By the time Gendry throws the door open, three men in purple are dragging Wylla into a hole in the wall. A knight in torn white robes stands over the body of Marlon's son, Mycroft, and is lunging towards the boy's twin, Melody.

Arya leaps across the room between Vhagar and Melody while Gendry sprints into the passage to give chase to the Brax men. Vhagar, however, only looks to his mission, and turns to attack the Manderly girl. Arya throws herself between them, slashing out at the knight with _Needle. _Seizing her arm, he throws her to the ground. But now she has his attention. Arya urges Melody to flee as Vhagar stalks nearer, but the girl is in shock. He attacks, a curved dagger in each hand, and a furious duel begins. Arya has fought many enemies. But this knight fights like none she has ever seen. He is as quick as a water dancer and as ruthless as a Faceless Man. For every blade she manages to knock away, he produces yet another from seemingly endless hidden sheaths within his ghostlike robes.

For an instant, Arya begins to falter. This is no offensive fight, dodging and jabbing when she has the chance. A dagger glances her side and a strong leg sweeps her to the ground. She can feel her head bleed on the stone as Vhagar prepares for the kill. But then she sees the body of the boy and the face of his sister. And in their eyes, she sees everyone she has lost.

Sneering a hideous grin, Vhagar brings his dagger down, but Arya's hand stops it. The thin blade cuts clean through her palm. Vhagar stares in shock at her face, registering no sign of pain. The eyes of a beast, a wolf, ready to kill. It is the last thing he will ever see.

When Gendry returns to the room, having lost his quarry in the passages, he recoils to see Arya kneeling over the dead knight, stabbing viciously down with his own dagger again and again into an unrecognizable, bloody pulp of a face. Silently, he covers Melody's eyes and carries her from the room, leaving the girl he loves with her kill.

Outside the castle walls, Lord Brax drags a gagged Wylla onto his horse. He and his men flee, but in passing are spotted by sentries. Bidding their mounts to gallop, they careen down the path to the city. Looking back, Brax is horrified to see a group of Skagosi, led by Lord Magnar himself, their unicorns outpacing the guard's horses. Gasping for breath, he bids his horse faster.

At last, they reach the causeway that connects the Manderly's island to White Harbor. And it is then that Brax realizes he has made a grave error. It is rising tide, and the cobbled path is already covered by a foot of water.

"Defend me!" he shouts and forces his horse onward. His guards turn to block the three approaching warriors. They fight valiantly, killing one and delaying another, but both fall, and Lord Magnar thunders on. Used to the rough terrain of Skagos, his huge, shaggy unicorn is undaunted by the water.

Wylla Manderly struggles violently in the saddle. A hostage is worth nothing if I'm dead, thinks Brax, and he hurls the girl off. But the sudden action trips up his already precarious horse, sending him plunging into the frigid water. Picking himself up, he does not even look back, desperately trying to wade away through the rapidly rising tidewaters, his feet slipping and ankles failing on the mossy cobblestone. He can hear pounding, splashing, grunting hooves from behind. And in his final moments, he curses Cersei Lannister and the gods-forsaken North.

And so, as the sun sets over White Harbor, it silhouettes the form of Lord Tytos Brax, Lord of Hornvale and Warden of the West - impaled as the waters rise around him, washing away the blood that flows from where the horn protrudes, right over the prancing gemmed unicorn stitched into his fine silver doublet.

* * *

**Beyond the Wall**

In the valley, the Bay of Ice is finally in sight. Jon looks up to see Obara and Molda leaping recklessly down the stone walls and sprinting towards them.

"The dead!" Molda gasps through strained breath. "They're right above us!"

As the group begins to panic and Jon peers up at the sky, he feels as if an icy fist is tightening around his heart. "The Night King. I can feel him." He hands the sack of weirwood pods to The Hound. "Get them all to the bay. I'm going after him."

"You don't need to tell me to get the fuck out of here," Sandor growls, and rushes off. Most follow him, but Obara is reluctant to leave.

"You have my daughter's backs, you hear me?" Tormund points her away. "I'm going with him." Reluctantly, she finally leaves Jon with only the mad wildling, High Priest Naan, Coldhands and Beric.

"This isn't your fight, boy," Naan snarls. "This is the service of my lord."

"No. This is my battle," Jon insists. "He's here for me."

Back at the mouth of the valley, the Hound is the first to break free onto the bay. Soon, the rest of the party joins him.

"Finally, the land of the living again," old Jack cries out in glee. "Look, there in the distance!" He points across the ice to where crowds of men can barely be made out in the frigid fog. He begins to wave frantically.

"We're not home yet," Obara looks to the cliffs. The groups looks up to see the cliffs around the bay lined with dead men, slowly shambling out of the snow-covered forest. And then, one by one, they begin to drop. The Hound looks at the others, frozen in place.

"Now's the time you all should be running!" They take off at a sprint as the bodies at the foot of the cliff begin to pile up, some slowly hobbling to their feet to give chase. Across the ice, the approaching figures become more clear. Men on horseback, galloping across the ice towards them. A potential salvation, if they can make it that far. But the dead are gaining fast.

Back in the forest, atop the cliffs, Jon and Coldhands lead the troupe stealthily through the maze of trees, brush and dead men. They silently tread closer to their destination. And then... he is there. The Night King stands alone, waiting… for something.

"What are you going to do, just walk up and lop his head off?" Tormund asks.

"It's a trap," Beric hisses, and suddenly thundering footsteps sound behind them. An undead giant crashes through the trees towards them, a score of more soldiers behind it. The troupe escapes the path, into the open. Beric and Naan's swords ignite, as does Coldhands' incenser. The high priest cuts several wights down, but they rush off through the trees, disappearing as suddenly as they appeared. Jon slowly turns to see the Night King staring with cruel blue eyes, straight into his soul. Each hand holds a gleaming ice-crystal blade. He beckons.

Back on the bay, the rest of the party continues their desperate flight. The charging army of Dothraki and Northmen has halted, and are now launching flaming arrows, another hazard to the party. The red priests wave their flaming swords to signal a ceasefire. The Hound looks back to see Jack, fallen to the ground, and Tom O'Sevenstreams struggling to help him to his feet. Cursing himself, Sandor tosses the pods to Obara and turns back.

He pulls Tom to freedom, but it's too late to save Jack. A wight's claw-like hand tears open the old brother's throat, spraying his lifeblood over Sandor's face. Enraged, he begins to hack away at the pressing throng of dead men and beasts around him. But as the horde barrels past him, he can scarce swing his sword in the midst of the stampede. Sticking fast in the gut of a passing elk, it is wrenched out of his hands and he is set upon by three dead men. One bites into his arm, tearing through his heavy layers, skeletal fingers clawing at his neck.

"Fuck you all, dead bastards!" Sandor screams, tearing loose the rotted head of the wight and beating another with it. "You should have stayed in the grave!" But there are yet more, and more until an indescribable screeching fills the air. The dead stop. They can surely not know fear, yet they shudder. Sandor looks up to see, roaring down out of the sun, three dragons, diving straight towards the army of wights. He is momentarily paused in awe. Then coming to his sense, he seizes the chance to sprint in the opposite direction as dragon fire begins to tear into the ice.

Atop the cliffs, a furious duel is in full swing. One Valyrian blade, one dragon-glass axe, two flaming swords and a swinging incenser against two ice crystal blades. And the Night King is winning. Tormund lies injured on the ground with Beric tending to him. Jon is knocked away by an inhumanly strong kick, feeling ribs break on impact. He struggles to get back to his feet, grunting in pain. _Longclaw _lies a yard away. In that moment, he sees the fight has stopped. His uncle extends an empty hand to the Night King, and opens his mouth. Cruel, grating sounds of ice come out, a horrible tongue. Then, as if speaking now instead to Jon, he can be understood.

"It doesn't have to be this way. Come home." For an instant, the Night King lowers his guard. He seems to Jon almost as a child. But out of the corner of his eye, Jon sees High Priest Naan, burning with divine wrath, sword burning brighter than ever.

"Die, demon!" the bearded old man screams. A pillar of flame bursts from his sword, but his target easily sidesteps the attack and it is Coldhands who hits the ground, engulfed in fire. Jon screams in horror and desperately hobbles across the tundra to his uncle's side, oblivious to the whirlwind of ice and fire as the two elemental enemies clash. He finally makes it to Coldhands' side. The burning is extinguished, but every inch of the man is singed.

"I told you boy," he groans. "I can't go with you."

"No," Jon pulls the gloves off his hands, futilely trying to sooth his uncle's wounds with snow. "I can't lose you again!"

"You have your purpose. And I have mine. Life and death, winter and summer. This is the way it must always be."

Jon wants to scream out _No, _loud enough to stir the gods and demand of them justification. But instead, only a mad howl comes out, his words spent. And when he turns, he sees the Night King's sword pierce the chest of Naan and the fire go out in the high priest's eyes, convicting eyes judging Jon has his body falls. And then it all erupts into flame.

High in the air atop Drogon, Daenerys has begun to strafe the cliffs with dragonfire. The frozen bay has been melted into a choppy abyss of black water and chunks of ice, drowning the wights that had stood there. Now, she has turned her attention to the army still massed on the cliffs. But as rock and tree far away, she feels a force colder than any natural winter. Standing, now exposed on the edge of a newly formed, jagged cliff, is a creature seemingly made of pure ice and snow, looking directly at her. It raises one hand to the sky, and the wind begins to blow.

Jon slowly forces himself to his feet, _Longclaw_ in hand, and looks up in awe as the freezing wind roars out of the forest and hits his back. He has seen the dragons before, but not like this. And atop them, like a goddess descended from the heavens, he at last sees Daenerys again. And with that, he attacks the Night King once more. His blows are halting, each one an exercise in pain. His enemy sees it, and lands a frozen fist into Jon's broken ribs. He drops to the ground, hoping that the dragonfire will simply extinguish them both, and end this. But instead, he hears once more the painful tongue of the Walkers.

Looking up, he sees Coldhands, impossibly standing again, face horribly burnt, yelling threats at the Night King in his own language. He hurls a hatchet, embedding in the King's armor. And so the silent menace begins to stalk. Coldhands disappears into the forest, and his foe follows, each step cracking the earth at his feet. But Jon is broken, he cannot give pursuit. At last, Beric and Tormund reach him. They can feel the ground collapsing beneath their feet.

"We have to go!" Beric yells.

"And where the hell are we supposed to go?" Tormund yells back. "There's an army of dead men out there, three fooking dragons up there, and this damn cliff is about to drown us all in the bay!"

Jon's ears ring, but he can still hear the dragon's call. His mind goes back to that night on Dragonstone, to the warmth of the beast's breath, the glow in its eyes, the life he felt when he touched it, as if his soul had taken wing. And so, seizing Tormund and Beric, he launches all three over the edge of the cliff as it collapses into the sea.

Atop Drogon, Daenerys watches in horror as Jon and his two companions fall. But then, her fear turns to awe as Rhaegal suddenly dips in flight and plunges towards the dropping men. In an instant, they are caught upon its back and soaring back into the air. Even above the howling storm, she can hear a wild cry coming from the strange looking red-bearded man. And then the winds hurl her back. For a moment, Drogon is caught by the maelstrom of sleet, twisting and turning, it takes all Daenerys' strength to hold on as she steadies him. She catches a final glimpse of the more creatures of ice, all glaring at her before turning back to disappear into the forest and the storm. She knows better to follow.

She sees Rhaegal is flying away, back to the island, as if following Jon's command. But this cannot be. She turns to follow, but then, with a roar, Viserion flies past her into the storm.

"Viserion, no!" Daenerys calls out, but no more can be heard over the blizzard. She can only watch from atop Drogon's back as her great winged child vanishes into the storm. No matter what she bids, Drogon refuses to follow, instead turning tail back towards shelter. Desperately, she cranes her neck back to watch for some sign of Viserion. For a few moments, she sees bursts of dragonfire, illuminating the white darkness beyond. And then a final screech. And then… nothing.

* * *

**CREDITS**

_This was a pretty epic-length episode. Hope it held your attention! As always, any and all reviews are greatly appreciated!_


	18. Vigilance

**S08E08 Vigilance**

* * *

**White Harbor**

Cold water drips down on Jaime Lannister's head as he sits alone in a cell. He remembers how Tyrion had jeered him about the cycles of life. And now here he is, again in the custody of Northeners. For a moment, he misses Tyrion. A jape from him was always good to lighten the mood. But now, his only company is silent Theon Greyjoy, and their captor, Lord Wyman Manderly.

"I would like to kill you with mine own hands," the monstrously fat man is growling through his thick, white mustache. "But your crimes demand answer from the King in the North himself."

Jaime has tried and failed to reason with the man, but Wyman would sooner swim naked in his own frigid harbor than trust a Lannister. He waddles his way back to a courtyard, now dusted in snow, where a carriage waits to carry him back to the Newcastle. Wyman is in a most foul mood. The Skagosi are impatient for battle. Damned Littlefinger escaped in the chaos. He has one grand-daughter in shock and the unconsolable over her canceled betrothal. And his cousin's son is dead.

Upon return, he finds Marlon sitting alone amidst the overturned Sept, still in the ill-fitting doublet he wore then, now torn and blood-stained. Slowly, Wyman approaches.

"I don't want to see you!" the knight shouts without looking up.

"Marlon, we are all in mourning for Mycroft."

"Is that so, cousin? For all I hear are songs for the victory of the great Lord Wyman Manderly, who fooled the Iron Throne and spit in the Lannisters' eye. Tell me, why couldn't you have let me know?"

"You've always worried too much, Marlon," Wyman reaches out a comforting hand. "I did not wish to put such a burden upon you."

"My son is dead!" Marlon suddenly stands, pushing the lord forcibly to the ground. "My daughter scarred and my eldest will not speak to me, all because of your schemes. You wanted to prove them all wrong! And you have. Men will joke of you no more, cousin, for now they know you are a heartless lord!" With that, he storms out from the hall, leaving Wyman on the ground, alone in the debris.

High on the ramparts of the island fortress, winter wind blows fiercely at the weary stone. Gendry silently watches Arya Stark, who sits alone on the edge of the wall, as if a sudden breeze could blow her over. But he knows she is stronger than that. They have not spoken since the night of the wedding. And part of Gendry is relieved. He has not been able to look at her the same since the fight.

He had known she was different when they reunited, but that manner of animalistic fury… Once, he swore he loved her. Now she only frightens him. He feels Ser Davos pat him on the shoulder. Their reunion had been joyous, but the celebration brief. Gendry does not wish to speak to anyone now.

Davos approaches young Mycah Manderly, who looks not out to sea but down the river towards Winterfell. He holds in his arms _Leviathan,_ the great Valyrian sword captured from a pirate centuries ago, now entrusted to him for the coming battles. Davos is reminded of so many other young men he has known, forced by these wars to face the cruelty of the world far too soon.

"Am I needed with the men, Ser Davos?" Mycah asks.

"Aye, your father readies the fleet. We sail and march upon the noon-tide."

"It is my duty. But I do not wish it. I cannot bear to look upon Lady Sansa again. She was betrayed by my hand."

"She will understand," Davos assures the boy. "She is a wise woman, like her father and brother. You need not fear her."

"I do not fear her, Ser Davos. I fear what life will be once this season passes. We stand together now against winter, against death. But when the sun comes again, where shall we find ourselves?"

Davos has found himself asking that very question all too often. "We shall see, my boy." They both look down to the harbor, where the fleet is preparing to sail upriver. "We shall see."

* * *

**Bear Island**

The armies of Bear Island and the Mountain Clans have hosted a meager celebration of their victory with what little food and drink that they can spare. Zatarra shares reports with her three surviving brethren from Naan's party. The Northerners talk non-stop about the dragons and of the woman who brought them. Some claim that Jon Snow himself rode one. But the ominous fact remains - three had went to battle and two returned. They are, perhaps, not so invincible after all.

Missing from the festivities, however, is the heroine herself, a fact Jon has quickly noticed. Now he silently walks the halls of the Mormont's keep, searching for the woman whose memory has haunted him for so long. At last, he reaches her chambers. Within, he finds the dragon queen disheveled, her tear-stained face betraying that she has not slept since the battle.

"You came," is all he can say.

"I do not break my word." She will not look at him.

"I'm sorry. About the other…"

"They were my children. I can never bear my own. And that… thing took Viserion from me. You were there. What is it?"

"I don't know... The Night King. He rules the dead."

"The next time we meet, he will joining them." She turns to him. Her spirits seem to have lifted and she pulls him down to sit beside her on the bed. "You rode Rhaegal in the battle. How? Do you have Valyrian blood?"

"No. It just… happened."

"So what now? I have sent three troupes of Unsullied to man the Wall. I kept my vow to you."

"And I will keep mine. Come with me to Winterfell. I will bend the knee."

"Indeed," Daenerys begins to slowly slip out of her many layers of fur. Jon, suddenly caught off guard, feels as if he should leave, but she does not permit it, instead beginning to undo his own clothing. "You have not left my dreams since we parted."

"Nor you mine, but…" Jon protests. Daenerys silences him with a kiss.

"Do not worry, Jon Snow. This is what I want What am I to you?" He falls back onto the bed with her atop him, staring up into her blue eyes. Her skin is impossibly warm, even on this frigid isle.

"You are my queen," he says, and kisses her back.

* * *

**The Glass Gardens**

The scents of flowers and fresh-baked bread are gone from the city, replaced with a smothering stench of rain on the wind. Missandei shivers, and steps away from the window, turning to her host, Lady Leyla Cupps, who shakes with cold as well.

"Have a drink," the plump woman extends wine, which Missandei declines.

"You once said it was always summer in Oldtown," she whispers.

"Yes," Leyla sighs. "And yet it seems winter has finally found us."

"Any word from your brother?"

"My husband has tried to speak with Baelor, but he refuses to hold counsel. They call him Brightsmile, for he was always willing to charm the people. But father never taught him how to lead them. As for you, Gunthor has demanded your arrest. I can assure you, we will have none of that." At that, Leyla leaves Missandei to meet her siblings, Alysanne and Garth, in the nearby lounge.

"Our father cannot be left to rot in prison!" Alysanne is insisting. "Least not in times such as these!" Garth grunts in affirmation. Missandei turns away from the meeting. While she too is concerned for Lord Leyton, she has no place in this discussion. Walking back to her quarters, she sees Ser Argilac, waiting as always by her door.

As she approaches, he extends his scarred hands. She see he holds the pin of the Hand, which she had kept ever since leaving Dragonstone. But as Missandei takes it, she realizes it has been sharpened to a point.

"A gift. We have many enemies now," Argilac places a hand on her shoulder, awkwardly attempting to comfort her fears. "You may need protection beyond my means."

"Thank you." She gives him a gentle hug, to which he knows not how to respond, and wishes she knew how this could have all gone so wrong.

* * *

**The Oldtown Guard's Keep**

In the Guard's cells, Baelor Hightower sits across a table from his imprisoned father, Lord Leyton. The old man appears even more unkempt than usual.

"You cannot keep me locked here," he grumbles. "I am still the lord of this city, no matter what the fools in the Faith and your damned brother say. I demand you release me, this city is at stake!" Baelor looks away, with no response. "Don't you see it? What are our words, Baelor? 'We Light the Way'! What was our sword, that I have reforged? 'Vigilance'! Vigilant of what, Baelor? What way do we light? We were once burdened with glorious purpose, millennium ago when Bran the Builder rose up our tower and the Wall. We are the guardians of the light. But we forgot our calling along the way, we sold our purpose for security and for wealth, to the Andals, to the Targaryens, to whomever came along! And I was the same. But then your sister, Mallora, she had her dreams. Horrid dreams of a night without end and a summer without quenching. I turned back to the old ways, Baelor, that's why I've been away. I've learned the truth…"

"Enough!" Baelor slams his fist on the table and turns to leave. "I care not what you did in that tower these past ten years. I know only what you did not do. You did not give me direction to lead this city through war and turmoil. You did not intervene when secrets and jealousy tore our family apart. You took a new wife, and let her grow to hate us. You did not even come to our own sister's funeral! So do not tell me what you have done. For I am done waiting upon you."

Baelor lets the door slam behind him. But as he exits, he is called aside to another cell. Looking through the slotted window, he sees Qyburn.

"Good ser, please listen," the Hand beseeches. "This treason can yet be forgiven. Let me help defend the city."

"From whom, my lord? From your king, whose men have sacked The Arbor, where one of my sisters is married?"

"Those Ironborn are rogues, I swear!" Qyburn insists. "King Euron has put them down and sent his own ships to come to your aid. But you must free me!"

"My hands are tied," Baelor shakes his head. "Ser Gunthor holds your keys. But I will see him on your behalf. Pray that your king keeps his vows."

* * *

**The Arbor**

At night, the many priests of Euron's counsel assemble beneath the stars to seek prophesies. Euron stands by the fire lit by Moqorro, Yara close by, under the watchful eye of the Codd Brothers. Lord Donner Saltcliffe watches the proceedings skeptically.

"My king, the word of our lord is clear," Moquorro prophesies. "To sail against Oldtown would court disaster."

"The queen's orders were clear," Saltcliffe agrees.

"Orders?" Bloodless Tom Codd scoffs. "You are a king! A king takes orders from no one, much less a woman!"

"If not the queen, heed our lord's warnings!" Moqorro does not give in. "Have faith in R'Hllor's plan!"

"Your lord, Moqorro," Euron snaps. "Do not forget your place. You may have one god, but I have a hundred. I do not choose to limit my blessing."

"It is not a matter of what you choose," the red priest foretells as his king turns away. "But what chooses you."

"I am of one mind," Euron declares. "We shall leave the _Silence_ here. Let all word maintain I remain on this island to keep the peace. But I will have your ship, Lord Saltcliffe. We sail on Oldtown. I am a king. I will take what I want."

He stalks to the edge of the roof, looking down across the dark, empty vineyards. Yara approaches him silently, she can smell the salt of the sea even this far inland.

"Why do you want this?" she asks. "Just to spite Cersei?"

"Cersei? She is only a pretty toy on a steel chair. I don't give a damn what she thinks. No, it's that." He points across the dark waters to where the great fire of the Hightower burns. "That damned light has haunted me all my life. See, when I was a boy, I dreamed that I could fly. The maesters told me that I was a fool, that men were not meant to fly. But how can we know, if we never dare to jump? I didn't jump until I was a man grown. Until the storm..."

"The storm that drove you mad?"

"Oh, I've killed men for saying less, niece. But no, I'm not mad. That night, in the storm, I learned the truth about this world. The truth that lives in the shadows while all men sleep. The storm sang to me, and I remembered the dreams that had been locked away. I saw the future, a future where a man who knows the truth can be a god. You know what they told me, the spirits in the storm?" Yara scoffs and turns away, but he seizes her, breathing breath of Nightshade into her face. "Ask me what they said!"

"W…what did they say?" For the first time, Yara is truly afraid of him.

"They sang to me, girl," he leans to her ear and hums softly. "It's always summer under the sea…"

* * *

**Skyreach**

After a seemingly endless trek through the deserts, cold mountain air at last blows down over two camels as they reach the foothills of the Red Mountains – the mouth of the Prince's Pass. Princess Arianne Martell, Ser Rolland Storm, Elia Sand and Garin have at last found shelter. The city of Skyreach, built into terraces in the foothills. And above it all towers Skystone, the tallest mountain in all the South.

"I didn't think anything could be so big," Elia Sand murmurs, her jaw dropping. Garin, Arianne notes, is speechless. A rarely accomplished feat.

Carved straight out of the mountain, the fortress of Skyreach itself sits, as if a great stone nest for some massive bird of legend. This is their destination. The quartet rides on, until they reach the garrison at the foot of the mountain. Rolland had feared they would be seized if Arianne was recognized, but the guards of House Fowler still hold their true loyalty. Soon, they find themselves rattling up the side of the cliff in a lift cage, rising high above the earth to the castle itself.

Once inside, they are separated by servants, taken to private chambers to be cleaned and dressed in fresh clothes. Arianne, however, tends to herself, unwilling to have any look at her scarred face. Now she sits, in a fine blue dress, the scarred left side of her face wrapped in a silver scarf. And across from her is Lord Franklyn Fowler.

"The Old Falcon" is aged beyond his years, hard bronze skin with receding black hair, peppered with grey. His sharp features and hawked nose watch her carefully, as does one of his many trained hawks, but his amber eyes hold warmth.

"Let me see your face, child. You are at home here."

Reluctantly, Arianne unwraps the scarf, revealing the horrid scarring that now mars half of her beautiful face. She wishes to turn away, but Franklyn extends a comforting hand.

"You are no less beautiful," he says.

"Do not mock me with sympathy," Arianne glares.

"True beauty, my dear, is nothing that monster Darkstar could ever touch. You have the wisdom of your mother, the heart of your father and the spirit of your uncle."

"And what will that earn me, when you and the others answer his call and follow the Yronwoods?"

"Darkstar is no leader," Franklyn strokes his hawk. "This is known. The people of Dorne do not believe in him, nor in Anders Yronwood. They are villains and cravens. The people yearn for a hero, someone to follow through these dark times."

"The Age of Heroes is long past," Arianne sighs.

"Perhaps. But what is yet remembered may always live again." Franklyn bids his hawk fly out the window, out towards the mountains. "There is a place you and your companions may take shelter. The storm is nearly upon us. Let us see what will rise to face it."

* * *

**The Red Keep**

Genna Lannister and Lord Commander Balon Swann walk through the vast hospice, assembled first by Qyburn and now presided over by his protégé, the young Master of Whisperers, Arthur Waters. As winter's grip tightens, the ill of the city flock to seek healing in ever greater number. Here, they are tended to by a ramshackle staff of youths, servants and priests from the many religions spread by the King's men.

Both nobles are decidedly put off by these new zealots practicing their own brands of unorthodox healing. But the illnesses are treated, and Arthur has managed to keep their sects from murdering each other in the streets, so there is little to complain about. Little that is, but the fate of Ser Boros and Ser Preston of the Queensguard.

They find the two knights stripped of all formal wear, lying unresponsively on cots and tended to personally by Arthur himself. Balon remains unconvinced that their sudden illness is not the direct handiwork of the impish young man's devilish mind.

"It is hard to believe they could be laid low so fast," Genna examines the barely-breathing bodies. "They had been in perfect health."

"The day is long past that Ser Boros enjoyed good health," Balon admits.

"I pray it's not a plague, is it?" Genna asks Arthur.

"No, no, nothing of such concern," the boy answers. "But I may yet save them."

"Save them?" Balon scoffs. "Like you saved Ser Gregor?"

"Ser Gregor is now the most powerful knight to ever serve."

"Yes," Genna concedes, "But it also befits our queen's guardians to have minds. Do what you will to save these men, but we will seek replacements." Balon catches Arthur's smile. He knows that this was the lad's intent. As he guides them to an exit, he pauses by a cell.

"This may be of interest, my lord and lady," he steps inside. "See what becomes of the enemies of our queen." He presents the ghastly scene almost as a threat to any who question him – Tyrion Lannister, bound and tied to a splintered table, his body broken and bruised, nearly beyond recognition. Balon turns away at the sight. Genna, however, locks eyes with her nephew. His mouth is gagged, but she knows for once in his life, he has no words. And for a moment, her heart breaks for him again.

"I would have taken his eye, but our king deserves such vengeance."

"Indeed," Genna finally turns away. "We can find our own way out."

"Very well," Arthur lets them go, then lifts a pair of sharpened pliers and ungags his prisoner. Tyrion struggles to evade the boy's prying hands, but a servant comes in and seizes his head. He glares up at his captors with fiery eyes.

"Has my sister turned so craven she will not come watch me suffer?" Tyrion spits blood and bile and his captor as his jaws are pried open.

"No, I think she just doesn't care for you anymore," Arthur grins as he leans in. "But it is oh, so fun to work upon a dwarf. They say your parts are of great value in the dark arts. I wonder what your tongue is worth."

"A tongue is worth nothing without words to move it."

"True to your nature," the boy laughs, and slides the pincers into Tyrion's mouth. "Have you ever been told you talk too much?"

* * *

**Winterfell**

Lady Sansa Stark reclines in the Great Hall with her brother, Bran, a welcome respite from their duties. The days grow shorter and colder, the lords and ladies and their men have begun to arrive and rumors run wild of the Daenerys' arrival. There is little time for sleep, much less relaxation. The table is set with plenty of wine and sweets. The wine is all for Sansa, but while Bran may have never learned a taste for drink, he still holds a child's sweet-tooth. Suddenly, he snaps to attention.

"He's here," he says and Sansa steels her body and mind. At long last, the moment of justice has arrived. They meet the guards at the top of the stairs. Petyr Baelish is being dragged along by Brienne and Pod.

"Lord Baelish," Sansa glares down at her former guardian, more unkempt than she has ever seen him. His cloths are torn, face scratched and hair disheveled. "We've been expecting you. How went the wedding?"

"My lady," he stumbles forward to whisper in her ear, as he has so many times before.

"No," she commands. "What you have to report is for all ears."

"Lady Stark," Littlefinger struggles to compose himself. "I beg you, you must flee with me at once. Lord Wyman has solidified his power, he killed Yohn Royce and marches here with full number to take Winterfell!"

"An interesting story. The missives we have received say otherwise."

"Lies!" he shouts, looking about for someone, anyone to believe him.

"No," Bran wheels forward. "All too true. House Manderly weeps for the blood that you helped spill. May it be added to your list of crimes."

"You're going to listen to him?" Littlefinger points, aghast. "He thinks he talks to trees! Can't you see what he's doing, he's trying to claim the North for himself. You think you're so smart! Brandon Stark, the Three-Eyed Raven? You're just another Renly!" Before anyone can stop him, he seizes the wheelchair and hurls it down the stairs. Bran crashes to the ground.

"Go on, stand up!" Baelish shouts as Brienne and Pod seize him. "It's all lies and parlor tricks! Sansa, we raised you better. You're wiser than this, you can't run a kingdom off of old wives' tales! This is madness, chaos!"

At that moment, his eyes lock with Bran's. As the boy speaks, Littlefinger's spirit finally gives way.

"Chaos is a ladder, Lord Baelish." As the Lord Regent of the Vale is dragged away and Bran is lifted back into his damaged chair, Lord Blackwood rushes to Sansa to report.

"My lady, a great army approaches. They bear the Manderly banner!"

Sansa smiles. "Brienne, bring Lord Baelish to the ramparts."

Soon they are assembled in sight of near the entire Manderly host, a great host of thousands beneath Merman banners. At their head can be seen riding Ser Marlon and Mycah, alongside Yohn Royce.

"They are here for your head!" Littlefinger yells, before his voice collapses to a whimper. "I swore to protect you! You don't belong here."

"No, Lord Baelish," Sansa shakes her head. "I am a Stark, as I have always been. The North runs in my veins. It is you who should never have come here. For it is not my head that they seek." Littlefinger's eyes widen as Podrick shoves his chest down onto the ramparts, leaning out over the snow-covered ground below. He hears the sound of Brienne's unsheathed sword as Sansa gives a signal. "You were right in one thing. You did teach me well. So you of all people should have known not to trust me."

With a swift cut through the frigid air, Brienne swings _Oathkeeper _at her lady's command, parting Petyr Baelish's head from his body. It drops down, over the ramparts, to land face-down in the snow he hated so much; at the feet of the arriving Manderly army as the gates open to welcome them in.

* * *

**The Blackstone Fortress **

Warning horns blare across the city, their bellows can be heard even within the walls of the Blackstone Fortress itself, as Baelor urgently walks through the halls. His wife, Rhonda, runs up to him.

"What's happening?" she asks.

"Get the household to safety," he urges her. "An Ironborn fleet has entered the bay, the same that sacked the Shields and The Arbor. We are preparing for assault." Rhonda rushes off to prepare and Baelor marches on, finally reaching the Blackstone Court, where he finds Ser Gunther sitting on the lord's throne, polishing the new Valyrian blade, _Vigilance_.

"That is not your seat, brother," he says, sternly.

"Isn't it? Father has gone mad. Garth is a simpleton. And you… Can you even dress yourself without your wife telling you what to wear? No, I think leading the city is down to me. Do you not hear the horns? You should take shelter, with the women and children."

Baelor seethes silently, turning over a million thoughts in his head, things he could say to humble his arrogant brother. But nothing can come out. Only distraction.

"I hear tell our sisters plan to aid the Lady Missandei's flight in the chaos of the attack. I thought you would like to know." Now that has Gunthor's attention.

"Get you to the keep," the young man orders, storming off with his shiny new blade. But Baelor has no intent to hide away beneath the fort. Instead, he steps behind the throne, to the passage that leads up, up to the Hightower above.

* * *

**The Glass Gardens**

Missandei is frantic in her room, unnerved by the blasting of the horns in the city. She knows not what is happening, only that this marks no good will. Suddenly, she hears a disturbance in the window. Turning, she sees Ser Gunthor standing in his armor.

"Don't shout," he gestures to the sword at his side. "Did you think I wouldn't know the way about my own sister's home?"

"Get out! Argilac is outside," Missandei whispers, holding the sharpened Hand pin out in front of her. She notices at his side, the keys to the Guard's cells. "I don't want him to kill you, but he will!"

"What is that?" he laughs, stepping to seize the pin. But she lashes out, slashing across his face. He howls in pain and she seizes the opportunity to tear off the keys and rush to the window. Flinging herself free, her grip slips on the stone wall and she grabs at the ivy running the length of the wall. The vines break her fall, but she feels her ankle give out upon landing.

She hobbles away, not even looking to see if she is pursued, but she can hear shouting from within the castle. Limping, she takes shelter in one of the Glass Gardens, hiding away among the flowers and cocoons until it seems safe to come out. As she leaves the garden, she suddenly is confronted by Lady Leyla with an assortment of knights, her closest allies and suiters, garnered from her time in the city.

Standing assembled with Ser Argilac are Lord Ambrose, Ser Marc Mullendore, Lord Tommen "Black Rose" Costayne, Ser Norris Dunn, Ser Buford Bulwer and even Garth Hightower himself.

"The city is no longer safe, my lady," Argilac kneels. "We will see you to safety."

"Thank you, good sers," she stammers, looking down at the keys in her hand. "But first we have someone to free."

* * *

**The Oldtown Guard's Keep**

Most of the Guard has already rushed to battle positions, leaving only a minimal selection to defend the prison. Those in the courtyard are caught off guard when the assortment of lords and knights suddenly rides into their midst. They stand back, unsure of what to do. Ser Garth is the first to dismount. Cloudy grey eyes look out from beneath his huge bronze helm.

"Good men, I bid you stand down in the Hightower's name." His booming voice is all the guards need. They throw down their weapons and let Missandei and Argilac pass into the keep unimpaired. The others simply stand and wait.

Inside the keep, Missandei follows instructions as she rushes to the most secure cells. Suddenly, their path is blocked by ten more guards, who are unwilling to listen to her request. They stalk closer, spears extended, as Argilac steps forward, hand on sword.

"No," Missandei stops him. "They only do their duty. Do not kill them."

"Very well," Argilac throws his sword down and steps forward. "Come at me then."

The guards rush the knight at once, allowing Missandei to slip past. But she need not fear for her guardian. The soldier's spears are ill-fitted for close quarters combat, and even while unarmed, the Horpe knight moves like a ghost in his torn white robes, easily and non-lethally dispatching each of the guards in turn with only his bare hands and the butts of their own spears.

Missandei, meanwhile, has reached the cells. Hastily, she frees Qyburn, Strongboar and Lord Leyton. The old mage shakes her hand gratefully, but Qyburn is more concerned by the war-horns.

"What is the matter, my lady?"

"An Ironborn fleet," she reports.

"As I feared," the Hand muses.

"I hope your plan works out, old man," Strongboar grunts. "Now where's my damn axe?"

Back in the courtyard, Ser Gunthor finally rides in with a dozen of his guardsmen. He finds his path blocked by Garth and the others.

"As I suspected," he sneers. "It's treason, then."

"Brother. Don't." Garth grunts.

"This is my duty," Gunthor glares. "You are all sworn to Oldtown. Cease this madness and throw down your arms." When nothing changes, he motions to his guards, but they do not approach the lords and their followers. "Men of the guard! Seize them!" But the only man to move is Garth, who, in a single movement, seizes his brother and throws him down from his horse. Grunting, he picks himself up and draws _Vigilance. _

"One last chance," he growls. The scratch on his face from Missandei's attack drips blood again as he charges forward, past Garth at the other assembled men. He crosses his blade with Marc's sword and the Black Rose's mace, before Garth deals him a heavy blow to the head from behind and he slams to the ground.

"Not an honorable move, Ser Garth", the Black Rose chides the huge man, who lifts _Vigilance _for himself.

"My brother… is not… an honorable man," Garth painstakingly pieces together the words. At once, the doors to the keep swing open. Leyton, Qyburn and Missandei are escorted out by Argilac and Strongboar. Missandei looks down disdainfully at Gunthor, who lies groaning on the ground. Leyton goes straight to Garth.

"Good work, my boy. Get the others to safety! But get me to the Hightower."

* * *

**The Hightower**

High above the city, Baelor looks down from the Lord's chambers. He can see the Ironborn ships, now they have come in range. Now their catapults have begun to bombard the city, launching flaming wreckage and canisters of choking black smoke into his beautiful city. What ships they have ready are marked for battle, but much of the fleet remains in drydocks. They will have no salvation there.

He turns instead to the great contraption of iron gears and pulleys that rises up above the roof into the flame itself. His father must have used some manner of sorcery to construct it. Baelor strains his brain to concoct a means to use it when he hears the door slide open. Turning, he sees Leyton himself enter.

"Father! Please, I'm sorry..."

"No," Leyton goes straight to maneuvering the controls of his great machine. "We do not have much time." The chamber is filled with bizarre mechanical noises as it roars to life. Baelor watches, feeling helpless, until his father pauses. He removes a strange little talisman from his neck and places it around his son's. "Now, we show these fools the power of Oldtown."

With a flip of a switch, the fire roars and Leyton's invention is revealed. He has transformed the tower's great beacon into a mirror-tower, directing the mystic fire into a great beam of destruction. In an instant, one, then two of the enemy ship burst into flame. Baelor can only watch in awe as his father directs the tower to rain fire down upon the marauders.

But suddenly, he hears a distinct ringing in his ears. Out of nowhere, a shadowy demon materializes and lunges at him from the nether. But his talisman burns, and the shadow dissipates as fast as it appeared. In awe, he turns to question Leyton, only to see, horrified, his father clutching his chest, the victim of a second shadow.

Baelor cries out as Leyton drops to the ground, but he refuses aid. His eyes clouded with blood and shadow, the old wizard wheezes out his final words.

"You are the light of Oldtown now, my son. Remember… Do not let it burn out." Baelor slowly stands as the life slips away from Lord Leyton. He turns to the great contraption and takes the controls.

* * *

_**The Serpent of Saltcliffe**_

On the deck of Lord Saltcliffe's ship, Yara Greyjoy, clings to the mast to stabilize herself as the stormy sea rocks the ship. The crew cries out in terror as the flame descending from the Hightower sets another ship ablaze. Even the hard hearts of the Ironborn are not hardened to such destruction. Euron, however is furious, beseeching his shadowbinder, Xuncar.

"Why is it still burning!" he yells. "Every man in that tower should be dead!"

"I don't know!" Xuncar stammers through his mask. "Some manner of magic…"

"My king!" Lord Saltcliffe calls out. "More ships approach from behind!"

Rushing to the stern. Euron stares out at the approaching fleet and his mood darkens further upon recognition.

"Those are the Harlaw ships. What are they doing here?" He receives no answer, for at that moment Yara seizes her chance for freedom. Attacking the nearest soldier, she slays the man and steals his sword, charging at her uncle. Xuncar gets in the way, and she quickly cuts down the shadowbinder, taking no small pleasure in ending his vile arts. And then she is upon Euron. And this time, she is ready for him.

There swords ring out as they duel, struggling to keep balance on the rocking ship. Yara is a skilled and powerful fighter, but slowly, Euron begins to press an advantage. She lands a strike to his shoulder, but this only seems to make him madder. And then she sees the fire coming. Turning away, she throws her sword aside and leaps from the deck as it bursts into flame.

For some time, Yara simply struggles to stay afloat, oblivious to the dying battle as she clings to driftwood. She begins to doubt her odds of survival. But at least, she thinks, she has lived to see Euron humbled. At last, however, she sights a small rowboat, searching for survivors. Seeking out a rescuing hand, she sees the face of a hump-backed old man, his cloak marked with the sigil of a scythe.

"Yara? Cousin!" the man cries out.

"Hotho?" She recognizes her uncle's cousin. "What has occurred? Does Euron live?"

"Was he here? The lord Hand told the lord your uncle that the rogue raiders meant to attack Oldtown, and summoned our aid on order of the king."

"I see," Yara looks out through the mist to the expanse of wreckage. "But Hotho, I think it would be best you did not report my recovery. I wish to return home."

* * *

**CREDITS**

_Guest Star: Clifton Collins Jr. as Lord Fowler_

_It was so much fun bringing the Oldtown plot to a head. Hope you enjoyed it, as well as Littlefinger's comeuppance. And more surprises and secrets will be revealed soon! As always, all reviews are greatly appreciated!_


	19. Winterfell

**S08E09 Winterfell**

* * *

**Oldtown**

In the cobbled, misty streets of Oldtown, the flames of the battle are extinguished by a gentle rain. But from one of the canals surges a gasping, wheezing figure – Euron Greyjoy. Drenched, he limps through the backalleys of the city, cursing the wounds his niece has given him. He once had plans for her. Now, he only wishes she lies at the bottom of the harbor. Stumbling around a corner, he is caught off-guard by a patrol led by Ser Lyle Crakehall, the Strongboar, himself.

Euron moves to fight, but Strongboar recognizes him and kneels.

"My king!" he shouts. Euron is at first confused, momentarily forgetting his own status. Slowly, he reassembles the stance and authority of a king.

"Take me to the Hand!" he demands.

* * *

**The Blackstone Fortress**

Qyburn busies himself in the royal study. He has already spoken with Hotho Harlaw. The man has no great mind, but will be useful with spinning the story he has crafted to win back the nobles' graces. And then there are other, darker matters to attend to before his work here is done. A pounding on the door interrupts his thoughts. Before he can call the guest in, the door swings open and Euron shoves past Strongboar into the room. The king is in a fury.

"Why is the Harlaw fleet here? They attacked my own ships? What hand had you in all this!"

"I did not know you were on the ships, my king." Qyburn remains calm. "You gave word you would stay at the Arbor and not interlope here, as the Queen commanded. You have created quite a mess."

"Is this how you speak to me, old man? I am your king!"

"I am the Hand of the Queen. Cersei sits on the Iron Throne, not you."

"Enough!" In a single brutal movement, Euron slams Strongboar down on the table and, revealing a dagger, slashes open the knight's throat. Qyburn rushes to provide aid, but Euron pulls him away. "No more games, no more secrets! You serve me!" As Euron releases him, Qyburn looks to his captain's body.

"I liked him…" he whispers. "He was a true knight."

"Aye," Euron growls. "And I'll gut that girl of yours the same way if you cross me again." Qyburn does not doubt it, but he also knows his responsibilities.

"My king, please listen but to one request. Until your own ship reaches the harbor, hide yourself away. Play this part and I assure you, all will be well."

* * *

**Winterfell**

Sansa rolls Bran through the godswood, the paths carefully cleared of the thick snow coating the ground. It is colder than Sansa can ever remember. Finally, they reach the heart-tree. There, sitting at its roots, is Arya. Sansa's heart falters, as she thinks of what to say. For so long, she had thought her sister dead. All these years, haunted by the memories of how harsh she had been, how cruel, and no chance for amends. But now, the dream she never dared is true, and she has no words. Instead, Bran speaks.

"Sometimes, when I'm here, I can feel father's spirit, watching me. I understand now why he spent so much time here. There's peace within the tree."

"I don't think I want father to see me…" Arya will not look at them.

"Arya, you're home! I never could have dreamed…" Sansa finally blurts out.

"No! What do you think is going to happen? That we'll just start again? Just pretend like nothing has changed, that we're all just one big happy family? You're the lady of Winterfell now, you think you can finally dress me up in proper gowns like you always wanted?"

"No!" Sansa insists, despite Bran's caution. "We've all grown. What matters is that we're together again. You can be whatever you want, now."

"You don't want to know what I am," Arya stands suddenly. "I shouldn't have come back." With that, she runs away into the godswood. Sansa tries not to cry again, and glares at Bran, remembering the way he acted upon his return.

"You shouldn't have mentioned father," she says, but he just shakes his head.

"My lady, my lord!" Brienne calls out. How long has she been waiting here? Sansa thinks as she reports. "Wyman Manderly has requested a meeting of the lords."

Soon they are all assembled in the Great Hall to hear Wyman Manderly bluster through an explanation of his actions and plead to return to the good graces of Winterfell. Ser Marlon silently and humbly prostrates himself. It is clear, Sansa thinks, he had no part in these plans. Nor, she hopes, did Mycah, but the once presumptuous boy lurks in the back of the hall, unwilling to look upon her.

Sansa struggles to listen to focus on Wyman's words and maintain the demeanor of a proper lady, forcing thoughts of Arya to the back of her mind.

"You have my condolences, Marlon, on the passing of your son. Thank the gods for showing justice to his killers. As for you, Lord Wyman, your scheming has caused great harm to the realm, but in such times we must move past old divisions. We are grateful for your ships, your men and your counsel. But take mark not to hold secrets from me again."

"Thank you, my lady," Wyman awkwardly dips in courtesy before reclaiming his seat.

"Now, is there further word from our king?" Sansa asks.

"Indeed," Maester Rhodry bows. "He has parted from Bear Island a week hence with Queen Daenerys Targaryen and her host."

"Who is this Targaryen?" Lady Dustin speaks up. "Has she married King Jon to fashion herself such a title?"

"The missive bears no word of any such matching," Rhodry confirms.

"My brother would have told us of any plans he holds," Sansa assures the nervous nobles. "Once he and his new allies have arrived, we shall discuss any matters of jurisdiction."

* * *

**Oldtown**

On the steps of the Blackstone Fortress, the Hightower family is assembled before a crowd as large as those that had gathered at the tournament. But this crowd knows not whether to cheer or to weep. In the docks, _The Silence _can be seen, freshly arrived under Bloodless Tom Codd's command. Now King Euron Greyjoy, cleaned and returned to clothes that befit his status, stands with the Hand as they are praised by the newly titled Lord Baelor Hightower. Face still fresh with tears for his father, he salutes them for their timely intervention against the rogue Ironborn fleet.

As the speech concludes, Qyburn, the "bird" Alys close by, finds Missandei in the crowd, surrounded by Ser Argilac and her other guardians. Still in shock, she sits with Lady Rhonda, tending to Ser Marc's pet monkey.

"The girl is under our protection," Rhonda insists, on sight of the old man.

"I wish her no harm," Qyburn insists, as Argilac eyes him suspiciously. "Allow me to treat with her, in private?" Missandei nods her consent, and soon the two are alone.

"What do you want?" she asks. "To parade me before your queen?"

"No, nothing of the sort, my dear," Qyburn smiles and feeds a treat to the monkey, allowing Alys to play with it. "My birds and I have watched you closely, with great interest. You have a wonderful mind, an open mind, and that is a horrid thing to waste. Look at how the people love you. I believe you have a great future in this land."

"I serve Daenerys Targaryen."

"Oh, I know. But I think, deep down inside, some things yet alarm you. I know you've heard the stories. Everywhere your queen goes, those who defy her burn."

"And Cersei and Euron are any different?" Missandei's glare is full of spite, but behind her eyes, Qyburn can see her resolve waver.

"Perhaps not. But I do not think you chose to follow your queen because she was the same as everyone else. You are a wise woman, I only ask you think about such things. There are many good works you may yet do here." With that, he gives the monkey a second treat, smiles a last time, and walks away, back into the crowd.

* * *

**King's Landing**

Genna Lannister watches from the Counsel's Table as Queen Cersei holds court. Her niece does not look well. Ever since taking herself into the confidence of the Red Woman, she has grown ever more paranoid and fearful. Genna is certain the attendant lords can see this as well. Genna worries she and Ser Balon are the only sane minds left on the counsel. And there is certainly no comfort from Arthur Waters, now speaking.

At the boy's command, two guards lead in the chained, forlorn form of Tyrion Lannister, throwing him down at the steps of the throne. Genna turns away, unable to face her mutilated nephew. Arthur pries open Tyrion's mouth to show the gaping wound where his tongue had been.

"The Imp's words need trouble you no longer my queen."

"About time someone had the bullocks to do that!" some lord from the back of court calls out. Many laugh with him, including the queen. Others only glance away nervously.

"I will say, I shall miss his screams," Cersei sneers.

"Oh, he can still scream," Arthur grins, and stabs Tyrion with a scalpel. He howls, animalistic. Genna shudders, but Cersei laughs.

"He will make a fine fool," she bids him be dragged away. "Is that all for today?"

Suddenly, the doors swing open. A squad of Goldcloaks quickly escorts in a huddled young man, hands changed to a chest he holds. They lead him to the foot of the throne. A gasp echoes through the hall as young Tywin Dondarrion is recognized.

"What is the meaning of this?" Cersei shouts.

"Treason, my queen," one of the guards declares. Bloodied hands shaking, Tywin carefully unlocks the chest, revealing the heads of Lord Tytos Brax and the spy, Maester Theomore. An uproar breaks out and Cersei shrieks, pointing to Genna.

"You! You told me to trust the Manderlys!" she yells.

"I'm sorry, my queen," Tywin stammers, but Cersei pushes him out of the way to march to the counsel's table.

"Cersei, we should not speak on this here," Genna tries to calm her, to no avail. But in an instant, Melisandre is upon them.

"My queen, do not exert yourself," she whispers in Cersei's ear. She concedes and turns away as Balon Swann dismisses court. Genna glares at the red woman guiding her niece away. She glares back, eyes dark and full of fire.

* * *

**Winterfell**

The door to the dark cells swings open, letting in the faintest light as the winter wind blows snow across the stone floor. Sansa steps in, followed by Brienne. By now, there are but two prisoners - Jaime Lannister and Theon Greyjoy. Jaime's eyes light up to see Brienne, but she does not look at him as she unlocks Theon's cell. The young man cautiously stands at Sansa's command.

"You saved my life, Theon. I will not let you rot in this cell another day."

"My... my trial..." Theon hesitantly crosses the threshold of his prison, stepping haltingly towards Sansa, who embraces him warmly.

"You have passed your trial," she cradles his head as he cries. "Be our brother again." The door swings open once more, revealing Bran. Theon falls down to his knees at the feet of the chair.

"Stand," Bran looks down at the man who once claimed to have killed him. "You saved my own life, too, once, or have you forgotten? Remember who you are."

"Thank you," Theon whispers softly.

"You are home," Sansa commands. "But your crimes remain. For the rest of your days you will serve as guardian to Bran. You will go where he goes and fight where he cannot. This is his will." Theon, grateful, straightens to his full height, a soldier once again. He exits with Bran and Brienne. Sansa turns to leave, but Jaime calls to her.

"So is it you who rule the North, now?"

"I serve at the will of my brother, King Jon."

"I may be mistaken, but I do not think that was King Jon who passed judgement on the Greyjoy boy."

"Watch your tongue, Kingslayer, or you will lose it!" At that, Jaime chuckles.

"I have sent word to the capital, begging my sister send aid," he says. "I do not think she is so without reason to deny my own word." Silently, he hopes this to be true. But even he does not truly believe it anymore. He watches Sansa's eyes, but cannot determine her own surmising. "My life is in your hands. I hope that your brother will prove as wise as you."

Sansa does not answer him, and leaves the tarnished knight in his cell. Brienne waits for her outside.

"My lady, if I may, Ser Jaime and I traveled together while I served your mother. He behaved... most honorably. I would not be alive to defend you if not for him."

"Then I owe him a great debt. We shall see if his promises are more than words."

* * *

**Castle Black**

The ragged cluster of wayward warriors stands out from a mile away in the midst of the identical uniforms of the Unsullied platoon now arriving at Castle Black.

Quite the odd assortment, Beric Dondarrion thinks, examining his companions as they arrive. But at least this time they won't be thrown in a cell. Instead, he, Tormund and Obara are brought before Lord Commander Eddison Tollett and new Head Steward Gawen Westerling.

"You know, typically when you get busted out of prison, you don't come running back to enlist," Edd japes. "But needless to say, we welcome the men. Dead bastards be all over the place these days. You say those priests know some sort of fire magic."

"Aye, but I don't much care for the creepy buggers," Tormund glares at the door, as if the priests are listening in.

"It's harder than ever to keep a flame lit in this weather," Edd dismisses him. "I don't care if they eat the bones and toss the chicken, so long as they can keep the fires lit and toss the chicken to me. Now, you…" he points to Obara. "Normally we don't take the ladies, but I feel like you can handle yourself. But a southerner, can ye' tell me what this is?"

Out on the table, he rolls out the blueprints for a scorpion-bolt. Obara recognizes the legendary weapon instantly.

"Lord Bran Stark sent me these, just today," Edd explains. "Says to build the bolts of weirwood."

"They were once used to kill dragons," Obara answers. "But the only dragons here are with the Targaryen queen, on way to Winterfell."

"Aye, but you lost one, didn't ye?" Edd looks back up.

"The Walkers couldn't possibly…" Beric shakes at the thought.

"Pray you're right," Westerling shudders.

"Pray all you want," Edd rises to leave. "I'll be building this monstrosity and hoping some man here has aim enough to kill a dragon."

* * *

**The Blackstone Fortress**

In the Blackstone Hall, Qyburn sits upon the lord's throne, handing our rulings in the name of the crown, with Baelor and Euron at his side. Gunther Hightower has escaped in the chaos, fleeing with his lover and Leyton's wife, Rhea. Lord Saltcliffe's body had been recovered. In truth, he was alive, at the time, but Qyburn had seen to it he was silenced in time to take blame for the attack. So far, most seem to believe the tale Qyburn has spun. And those most likely to doubt stand huddled before him now: Seneschal Ebrose and his cabal of archmaesters.

"Maesters, you stand accused of conspiracy and the murder of one of your own."

"You have no evidence for such claims!" Ebrose protests.

"Perhaps. But perhaps there are others who do," he looks to the Lord and Lady Ambrose, who wait with the few archmaesters who remained allies of Marwyn and had carried out his plans for the city. "Whatever happened to Marwyn will soon come to light."

"Whatever happened to Marwyn, he was a true threat to this city!" Archmaester Theomore shouts. "It is no wonder you defend him. You, a madman, playing at the Hand of the Queen! We all know what you've done. You're a monster! The books of history will show we were right!"

As the archmaester's echoes fade away, eventually only Qyburn and Baelor are left.

"Is it true, what they say about you?" Baelor asks.

"A monster? I care not. Men may one day remember my name as a dark beast of the past to haunt their son's nightmares. Such frivolities of legacy are nothing to me. It matters not what becomes of my name, so long as the work I leave behind may one day save the lives of many. What are a few lives in the sight of, say, the cure for greyscale? That is what I live for, Baelor. Let me play the monster, if that is what it takes. Now, tell me more of your sister's visions."

"I do not remember much," Baelor's brow wrinkles, trying to remember. "It's been so long since she and father... father..." The memory of Lord Leyton proves too much, and he breaks down in tears again. Qyburn wraps a comforting arm around his shoulders as he tries to regain composure. "I... I know she dreamt of dragons. And the dead walking the the streets of the city. And a man... Yes, I remember. She dreamed of a man with no face."

* * *

**The Silence**

Bloodless Tom Codd paces the deck of his king's ship as the mute crew unloads supplies. The wispy, pale man seems to fade within the scarlet of his jacket. He is growing impatient as his brother, Eldred, reports.

"What do you want us to do with the green stuff?"

"The green stuff?" At first, Tom is puzzled. But then he remembers. He catches sight of two raiders below on the docks, toppling headlong as they struggle to lift a crate, their load crashing to the ground. "Do not touch it," he urgently commands. "I will see it done myself." He leaves Eldred be and moves swiftly below deck, down to the deepest, coldest hold of the ship. Here, glowing in rows of small pots, lies the wildfire. Tom had pleaded with Euron not to bring it onboard. But there was no arguing with the king, and he could only thank the Drowned God that the deadly substance had not blown them all to hell on the way here. He prays that they may finally be rid of it here in the city. But then he sees a dark figure moving in the back corner of the hold.

"You there! Come out!" Tom commands. Another one of Eldred's oafs, no doubt. But as the hooded stranger draws near, he sees that it is far too short. "Show me your face! Who are you?" The intruder lowers the hood, revealing the face of Pate. And then he reveals his hand, and the dagger within it.

* * *

**Winterfell**

Davos and Gendry walk through the yard. Davos cannot bear to see the young man so melancholy. Suddenly, they catch the eye of Mya Stone, among the Winterfell guards.

"You there!" she points to Gendry. "Will you put your strength to use in the guard?"

"I'm afraid I'm no great fighter," Gendry steps back, embarrassed.

"But he's a fine smith!" Davos slaps him on the back.

"Then off to the anvils with you!" Mya insists. "This is no time for idle hands!"

Gendry, confused, wonders off, stumbling upon Bran in his chair on the way. Davos, however, has his eye gripped on Mya. Something about her stature, coal-black hair and dark-blue eyes strikes him deeply familiar.

"Have we met, my lady?" he asks.

"No lady, lord Hand, but a bastard, born of Stone. And I'd doubt our meeting, 'less you'd visited the Vale." Hearing the call of Podrick, the guard's captain, she turns to leave. Davos, however, stands in place, slowly piecing memories together

Above them, Arya sits high up on the roofs, looking down on all the activity below. She knows why Bran used to love this view. It all seems so alive, like the castle and everyone in it are part of a great creature. But she sees no place here for herself. The girl that left home years ago is long since dead. She can scarce even recall the voice of her father, drowned out by the drones of the Faceless Men and prophecies of the Ghost of High Heart.

She turns quickly as she hears another climbing up behind her and sees Gendry grunting, heaving himself up onto the roof with Bran clinging tightly to his back. Part of her wants to run. But if Bran can find her here, there's no point. Instead, she stays silent. Gendry, seeing this meeting is for siblings, quickly climbs back down, but she can still hear his breathing, hidden just out of sight, listening to every word.

"A girl with no heart can have no name," Bran breaks the silence. Arya's head spins to him at the sound of that prophecy.

"How do you know…"

"I know many things, Arya. You are not the only one who is something different now."

"If you knew what I am, then you wouldn't be here."

"No, that's why I'm here!" Bran insists, taking her hand. "It's far too much to explain, but when I... changed, I thought I had lost my humanity. I couldn't comprehend what I had become, what I had felt, how I was still supposed to love, or laugh, or feel. But Arya, nothing can take away who you are. Not unless you let it."

Arya slowly looks back into her brother's eyes and smiles. Somehow, she thinks, he understands. But it isn't enough.

"I'm sorry, Bran. But whatever you've seen, I'm not the girl you think you know. I'm not a good person. I've been touched by the God of Death."

Bran pulls up his sleeve, revealing the mark of the Night King. "As have I. Never think you are alone. That's how he wins."

Bran does not argue further, instead he looks to the horizon, where a great army approaches. Arya sees what has caught his attention, and reaches for _Needle_, but he stays her hand.

"He's home," is all Bran says. "And he's brought the dragon with him." And Arya stares in awe as, above the army, flying at incredible speeds, come two dragons, straight out of her childhood fantasies. And for a moment, Arya feels herself again.

* * *

**Horn Hill**

Talla Tarly sits, miserable, stitching in her chambers. She looks out her window to the yard, where fly the banners of the Marcher Lords – Peake, Risley, Pommingham, Varner… All here to match their most eligible sons to her, the last heir to her father's lands and titles. She knows these men seek only to make themselves the effective Lord Paramount of the Reach. And she has had quite enough. A knock on her door and her mother enters.

"I have no life left in me for further courtship today," she snaps, before noticing tears of joy in Lady Tarly's eyes. "Mother, what is it?"

"Your brother… Sam… Sam is home."

Without hesitating to ask more, Talla rushes down the stairs and out into the courtyard, ignoring thoughts of her graces. If she offends some visiting lord, good riddance. She finds the guards, arrows notched, surrounding a rugged mule-wagon. Pushing them aside she sees three figures among the boxes and chests – a strange-looking old woman, a dark-skinned young man and then.. Sam. Her sudden embrace pulls him down from the cart and into the mud.

* * *

**Winterfell**

The dragons have circled for hours now, drawing crowds from the fortress and the Winter's Town alike as the armies following Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow arrive at the gates. Now, they finally come to land. Arya watches in awe from the ramparts as Daenerys dismounts Drogon in red-and-black armor, every bit the warrior-queen of lore.

"Now that's the look of a queen," Mya Stone nudges her in the side. "Think your brother plans to marry her?" But Arya takes no notice of the guard. For now she can see Jon. For so many nights, she had feared having to face him again, after all these years, after what she has done, what she has become. But now she sees him. And the fear is gone.

He rides at the front of the army, in pristine black-fur cloak, alongside Grey Worm, Kovarro, the red priests Zatarra and Duncan, Lady Mormont, Lord Glover, 'Big Bucket' Wull and the Queensguard. He dismounts and Daenerys walks to his side. He deeply inhales the frigid winter air as the gates creak open. He knows he must maintain poise when he sees his family.

Standing on the other side of the gates are Sansa and Bran. With them are Lords Blackwood, Cerwyn and Manderly, Lady Dustin, Brienne, and Davos. As Sansa wheels Bran forward, Jon cannot help himself. He rushes forward to his family. Then, out of the crowd and from the grave of his memory, Arya appears to join the embrace. Tears of joy run down his face. He knows there is much he will have to explain, much they will not want to hear. But for now, none of that matters.

* * *

**The Starry Sept**

In the sanctum, Lord Leyton Hightower lies atop a stone slab, dressed in finer clothes than the old mage had cared to wear in the final years of his life. The seemingly endless line of mourners, both nobles and commoners, has finally ended. Now only Baelor and Ser Garth stand vigil by their father's body.

Qyburn treads quietly into the sanctum, dipping his head respectively. Garth moves to bar his entrance, but the new lord welcomes him.

"I hope you have not come to speak policy, my lord."

"No," Qyburn shakes his head. "Mourn your father while you may. I fear grave matters will soon be at hand. I trust you will make his spirit proud."

"You believe in ghosts, Lord Hand?" Baelor asks.

"Once, at the Citadel, I came into an empty room and saw an empty chair. Yet I knew a woman had been there, only a moment before. The cushion was dented where she'd sat, the cloth was still warm, and her scent lingered in the air," Qyburn looks up to the high, domed ceiling, it's roof open to the stars above. "If we leave our smells behind us when we leave a room, surely something of our souls must remain when we leave this life?"

For a long while, both men sit in silence, looking up at the stars and the watchful stone eyes of The Seven gazing down on them. Finally, Baelor speaks.

"Have you spoken to the guard on the matter we discussed?"

"They are aware of the threat, though I fear that identifying such disguised villains may prove beyond their capabilities. But I have lain traps of my own. Your goodbrother, Ser Jon Cupps, has taken command of the guard. I trust he will keep order."

"He shall. Jon is a wise man. Thank you for your counsel."

"It is but my duty. The crown prizes the security of Oldtown dearly," Qyburn bows to leave the mourners in peace, but pauses once more, looking up at the stone alter to the Stranger, where Garth kneels. "And one last matter. I know it is not your custom, but when your vigil is passed, you ought burn the body. And all the others, as well. If the night your sister dreamed of is truly upon us"

* * *

**The Hightower**

Late at night, Qyburn pours over what few texts Leyton had not sent out of the city with his daughter and the Tarly lad. Some tomes of prophecies, ancient histories, legends of the Long Night and of the building of the Hightower. He wished he had been graced with more time to speak with the man before Euron's blundering killed him. Rubbing his eyes in exhaustion and frustration, Qyburn pushes the books away for tonight and begins the long, slow walk down the seemingly endless stairs. As the old man leaves, he does not notice the figure waiting in the shadow. But as his footsteps fade away, the dark specter steps into the study wearing the face of Bloodless Tom Codd. In the center of the table, atop the ancient texts, he places a pot of wildfire. And then another. And another.

Backing down the stairs, the silent killer leaves a steady trail of the glowing green toxin. Down and down he spirals until he reaches the root of the tower and steps out of a window onto the roof of the Blackstone Fortress that forms the base of the tower. Here, so close below the great eternal flame, it is near as bright as day. Squinting in the glare, the man tosses the now empty final jar aside, his face shifting back to that of Pate. With a clattering of flint on steel, he lights a spark and drops the light into the wildfire's path.

"Valar Morghulis."

* * *

**The Oldtown Harbor**

A fire burns on the stone docks where _The Silence_ is moored. Two lone figures sit across from each other in its light - Euron Greyjoy and Moqorro.

"Your heart is troubled, my king," Moqorro observes.

"Of course my bloody heart is troubled!" Euron angrily takes a swig of Nightshade. "The men are right. I thought being king would get me what I want! And yet here I am, drinking alone on the docks. My brother's damned brats have escaped me again. And that blasted light is still there!"

"You don't even know what you ask..." the priest shakes his head. "That light stands between us and the night. And the night is dark and..."

"Full of terror?" Euron rises angrily, throwing down his drink. "You don't know me, fire-breather! You don't know what it's like to have all the power in the world torn away! You don't know what I've seen, what I've felt and dreamed! But I figured out the truth. I know what's going to happen when that light goes out. And I know that there's nothing that Qyburn or you or your god can do to stop it. The storm of has arrived Moqorro. Winter is here!"

As Euron curses the Hightower defiantly, it's great flame seems to burn for a moment brighter than ever. And then it erupts in an explosion of wildfire. The destruction rattles the frame of every home and shakes the stones of every road in Oldtown. Moqorro can only watch in horror as the ruined stones crash to the ground, and a pure beam of brilliant energy rises from the ruined tower and shoots into the sky, alive with every color known to man and more still indescribable. And as this ancient power comes undone, Euron Greyjoy dances and howls with the darkness.

* * *

**The Wall**

Atop the Wall, Beric is humbled by the sheer scale of the ice and the vast expanse of nothingness before him. An impregnable blizzard keeps visuals to only a few yards. But all of the men assembled know what waits hidden in the white – the Army of the Dead. Chief Steward Westerling has constructed a rudimentary version of the Scorpion Bolt.

"Is this what it ought to look like?" Edd asks.

"I never saw one," Obara shrugs. "But it looks right."

"And now for the weirwood," Edd turns back to face the whiteout.

"It's suicide to send men out there!" Harys Swyft shouts over the howling wind. "We don't even know if the Walkers have a dragon."

"I can feel it," the priestess Eres struggles to keep the torches lit. "A spirit of fire, corrupted. It calls out in pain."

"Rubbish!" Swyft scoffs. "Now, as a lord…" In a flash, the Hound seizes him and begins to dangle him out over the edge of the cliff, the others watching in shock. Once Beric would have intervened. Now he cannot find the energy.

"You were a lord once, fool," the Hound growls. "Then you took the black. You're just a spineless craven now."

"Put him down, Sandor," Edd urges. "I've a mind to drop him myself, if it weren't like to hurt morale. But we need the weirwood."

"I'll go!" Tormund Giantsbane steps forward, his daughter Molda following suit. But the priests step in the way.

"Only those blessed by our lord are prepared to face the dead!" Nevio insists. But before the argument can go further, Obara seizes Edd and points to the sky.

"I think we have bigger problems," she says. All eyes turn up to the great beam of light stretching across the horizon. It's beautiful. But then it begins to fall. Down, down to them.

"Get to the lift!" Edd shouts. They all turn and sprint to the cage as the light bares down onto the Wall, sending chunks of ice flying on impact. The entire Wall begins to grow with a frightening luminosity and with a deafening roar, cracks begin to appear. One crack opens up and swallows up the Bolt, dragging Westerling and Nevio down with it. Eres, Obara, Swyft and the Hound make it to the cage first. Beric is frozen in place until Tormund pulls him to safety. The huge wildling turns back for his daughter who is dashing behind them.

Suddenly, the ice tears open. The lift swings loose from the Wall, the lock jamming, and Molda disappears, screaming into the void below. Tormund howls in fury and tries to force himself back out of the cage. Obara and the Hound hold him back as Beric is pressed tight against the frigid cage. He sees Edd on the outside, clinging to the controls of the lift. He tries to reach the man through the bars.

"Take my hand!" But it is too far to stretch without abandoning the controls.

"I think not," Edd sighs, barely audible over the destruction. "A better death than I ever expected to get." He heaves one last time on the release level, the force freeing the lift. "And now my watch is ended." He watches as the lift falls, down, down, out of sight to safety below. He collapses to the ground, even as he feels it gives way. It seems…peaceful.

And indeed, the sight is oddly serene as the Wall, from Eastwatch to the Shadowtower, glows with otherworldly light and implodes, piece-by-piece, crumbling to the ground. And as it falls, the great blizzard sweeps over the ruins, ready to consume all that lies beyond.

* * *

**CREDITS**

_And now the Long Night begins..._


	20. The Last of the Starks

**Winterfell**

The last of the Starks sit around a small table for a private dinner. In their midst, sticking out like a sore thumb, is Daenerys Targaryen, ever politely suffering through another meal of bland Northern food. This ought to be a warm reunion, but tension lies heavily over the room. No member of the reunited clan wishes to broach the secrets of what they have done in each other's absence. For his part, Jon is overjoyed to see Bran and Arya, whose deaths he had long past accepted, but both are incredibly, frighteningly different from when he last saw them. His attention turns elsewhere - to Theon Greyjoy, standing at guard in the corner in Stark armor.

"You saw fit to free him?" Jon asks Sansa. "Are you so soon to forget what he did?"

Theon stammers. "My lady, my king, I can leave if you…"

"No," Sansa demands, turning back to Jon. "He is not the man he was then. But he is not free. He is sworn to defend Bran for the rest of his living days."

"You'd trust Bran's life to the man who meant to kill him?"

"I trust my own life to him," Bran insists. Jon, skeptically, nods. They resume eating in silence, neither Sansa nor Jon's attempts at prying conversation succeed. Finally, Daenerys has had enough.

"I beg your pardon," she rises from the table. "I am not well." By the time Jon finds her again, she is outside. It is so cold here, so far from the warm sun or the blue sea. She hears footsteps approach. When she turns, Jon is there with his massive white direwolf. She has seen Ghost before, but kept her distance. Now, Jon beckons she approach the beast.

"He's friendly, I swear," Jon smiles. Cautiously, Daenerys kneels and extends her hand to stroke the soft white fur. She feels the beating of the wolf's heart, blood cold as ice. Slowly, her fear dissipates, and she feels it's tongue sloppily lick her face.

"I only wish the rest of your family were so friendly," she smiles, wiping away the saliva.

"They'll come around, once they get to know you" Jon promises, confidently. Both their eyes are then caught by a great stream of light, all colors, rolling across the night sky. Daenerys finds herself clutching Jon's hand, enraptured by the beauty that yet fills her with dread all the same. She turns back to Jon and sees the light reflect in his dark eyes.

"A comet?" he wonders. "An omen?"

"We should marry," Daenerys blurts, catching him off guard. "They would accept us, then. There would be no need to argue. We will defeat the dead, then take the throne together."

"I…I don't know," Jon searches for words.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes!" he decides. "I know I do."

"Then let us bind the kingdoms back together!"

"I don't know…," Jon has no more time to think, for a great rumble shakes the earth, knocking them to the ground. As they stand, the doors open, swing open, revealing Bran and Lord Blackwood.

"It's happened," Bran says, ominously, eyes clouded. "The Wall has fallen. The Long Night is here."

* * *

**Castle Black**

The ruins of the Wall have destroyed the fortress of the Night's Watch, but it is impossible to see the scope of the destruction through the blinding blizzard that now roars down from the Far North. Stumbling about, a small cluster of survivors search the rubble – Munda, Anguy, Tom O'Sevenstreams and a handful of Unsullied and men of the Black. They dare not call out, for fear of what may wait on the other side.

They come upon where the great lift cage has landed, pinned beneath a great slab of ice, its bars thankfully holding strong. With their help, its occupants are freed – Beric, the priestess Eres, Harys Swyft, the Hound and Tormund. Munda's heart sinks when she does not see her sister among their number.

"Your sister's gone," her father says, without looking at her. "I'm going to make those icy fookers bleed." He turns and begins to sulk away, into the storm. Munda runs after him, and the Hound and Obara block his path.

"Unhand me!" Tormund roars. "I will not be made a craven!"

"Stop!" Munda yells back. "Getting you'self killed won't bring Molda back!"

"Well it will damn well make me feel better!" Tormund tries to break free. He wrestles Sandor to the ground and runs, but Obara is faster and deals the huge man a swift, hard blow to the head with the butt of her spear. He drops to the ground, howling in pain and fury.

"You once told me to care for your girl," Obara glares. "That includes keeping her fool of a father alive. Get back in line, or I'll drag you back to Winterfell." Reluctantly, Tormund turns back, and stands beside Munda and the others, who now flock to Beric for leadership.

"The dead will be here soon," the battle-torn lord says, haltingly. He looks up to the invisible stars, as if seeking guidance. "We must make haste. The North must be warned." And so, once again, the party is on the run, with the end of the world at their heels.

* * *

**The Blackstone Fortress**

Night has fallen over Oldtown. And this night is darker and colder than any before, not just for the absence of the city's great beacon. By the light of Ser Argilac's torch, Missandei follows Lady Rhonda Hightower through the ruins of the Hightower, come to rest atop the ancient fortress itself, which yet remains unshaken. She shivers as, from the skies above, tiny white crystals light upon her, stinging with cold and then melting away. She holds out her hand to catch more. Snow. She knows the word, but has never known its touch. Until now.

"You said it was never winter in Oldtown," she turns to Rhonda.

"Yet now it has come. These are dark times. I hope you will not leave our company."

"I serve Queen Daenerys," Missandei looks away. "I must return to her."

"My dear, you know we can't allow that," Rhonda takes her hand in motherly fashion. "I would wish you stay to tutor the children. You know the languages and ways of the East better than any man of the Citadel." When no response comes, Rhonda braces herself from the cold and presses on to find her husband. Baelor finally comes into view, atop one of the shattered, burnt stones.

"My love, you should come in, night has fallen," Rhonda calls.

"I fear it will never leave us, now." Baelor does not look at them. "My father's last words were to guard our light. And now it is extinguished. I failed him. I failed all of us."

"No," Rhonda looks him in the eye. "We light the way. Not the beacon. Us! You! You are the Flame of the Hightower. And if what Leyton said was true, the people have never needed us more."

Slowly, Baelor looks up. "Where are the King and the Hand?"

"In the forges," Argilac reports. "The guard searches the city, they believe this was the work of a Faceless Man."

"And our men?"

"They stand ready," Missandei points to the harbor. "The armies assemble, the sails raised, men wait by the canals for your command."

"So be it," Baelor stands, looking out over his city, now eclipsed by darkness. "Light the flames, fire the forges, ready the city. We must face the night."

* * *

**Last Hearth**

The ancient seat of House Umber is almost empty. Two ragged old men stand alone on the ramparts – Mors and Hothar Umber. Mors, huge and strong despite his age, holds a piece of dragon-glass in place of a long-lost eye and wears the hide of a white bear, its head a helmet. Hothar is shorter and lean, skin and bones weathered by the years of cold. Both stroke their long, white beards and look north, across the horizon, to where the Wall ought to stand.

"It's a curse to abandon this keep," Mors growls.

"Then stay and die, you old fool," Hothar spits. "The Long Night has come again. We make our stand at Winterfell." The old man stomps down the steps into the courtyard, where Ned, the young lord of the house, just a boy of ten, watches the men prepare to march.

"I don't want to leave," he looks up at his uncles. "I am the lord of Last Hearth."

"You sound like this empty-headed old man," Hothar places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "The White Walkers have breached the Wall, we do not stand a chance here. A good ruler knows to live and choose his battles wisely."

"That's why I was never a lord," Mors stalks off.

"I will stay until all the household is safe," Ned insists, deadly serious despite the youthful squeak of his voice. "Not a moment sooner."

* * *

**Winterfell**

In the war-chamber, the lords and ladies have gathered to make final preparations, now more urgent than ever. The sooner the fighting can begin, Sansa thinks, the better. Their armies grow restless. Poor Podrick must daily break up brawls between Northerners and the sudden influx of Eastern armies. Now, Ser Marlon Manderly points to ship markers upon the White Knife river.

"We have secured passage for the elders and children to take safe passage to White Harbor on our fleet," he explains.

"Is White Harbor prepared for the Night?" Bran asks.

"My son lights the streets with fire," Wyman confirms, "burning the crypts and placing watch over the graveyards."

"You speak boldly of such matters, Lord Stark," Zatarra glares from Daenerys' side. Sansa does not like this priestess, nor her red brother who has become Jon's companion.

"I know of the Night King," Bran stays calm. "I know of the Long Night. I can see through history, to find the knowledge we need to win this battle. My sister and I have so prepared. As the Three-Eyed Raven, I…"

"A boy who deals in the very dark magics that created the monsters we fight," Zatarra pushes back. Daenerys eyes the Starks skeptically.

"No man here has more to fear from the Night King than I," Bran insists.

"And we have no means to confirm this than by your own words."

"I will not have my brother's honor questioned!" Sansa snaps. She has had enough. "We are here to plan our defense. Lord Royce and the Knights of the Vale shall wait on our eastern flank." Bronze Yohn nods approval. "The Dothraki will take…"

"I shall command my own armies," Daenerys interrupts. Sansa shoots an icy glare in her direction.

"We have planned our defenses for months…"

"The queen understands her own armies," Jon ends the argument. "She will arrange them as she wills." It is in that moment that Sansa realizes the truth. For the rest of the meeting, her mind slips back as Jon, Daenerys, Royce, Bran and the others hammer out the final details of the defense plans. Lord Glover and Lady Mormont clash once again. But she does not intervene. There are other, more concerning matters on her mind.

After the meeting, she corners Jon in private.

"Enough of these charades, Jon," she demands. "I want the truth. Why is she here? What have you promised her?"

"It's not important now," he tries to turn away, but Sansa will have none of it.

"Yes, it is. You call her queen? What is she to you?"

Jon hesitates, at first. At last, he speaks. "She is my queen."

"So you've bent the knee? When did you plan to tell us?"

"What is it to you? I am King in the North. It is my authority to choose whom we follow! And Daenerys is a good queen, a better ruler than any we've ever seen! We cannot win this war without her."

"Can't we?" Sansa shakes her head, her frustration growing. "We named you king. Where have you been? You were not crowned a month before you sailed off, leaving me to rule, to dictate, to hold the kingdom together while you ran to the ends of the North and back. Bran and I never asked to rule, but we have, and you've bent the knee without even thinking to ask our counsel?"

"I did not ask to rule either!"

"I know! That's what I'm afraid of! You didn't ask to be Lord Commander, and you left the Wall! You didn't ask to be king, and you found someone to kneel to!" She watches as he walks away, angrily. "Make what decision you deem wise. And pray you've done it for the right reasons."

* * *

**The Godswood**

Zatarra and Duncan light a great string of torches tied together to form a flaming fence around the wood, begrudgingly acting upon Bran's request. Lord Blackwood watches uneasily, in his red armor and feathered-cloak.

"They defile this ground with their presence," he glares.

"Defile!" his raven squawks.

"A necessary offense," Bran says, examining the sack of pods Jon entrusted to him. "The Night King will seek to corrupt the weirwoods. We cannot let his power penetrate here."

"And if we prevail. What do we do then? Your brother has begun to take their counsel."

"They say they seek the good of all men."

"And what do you see?"

"Nothing," Bran's brow furrows. "Their order is masked to me." He turns and sees Arya lurking once again in the darkness. They exchange a meaningful glance before the howling of wolves begins to fill the night air.

"An old friend," he says. "Go to her."

At that, Arya turns and runs out of the godswood, outside of the bounds of Winterfell itself, past the guards haunted by the howls until in the moonlight, she can see them. A vast wolfpack, dozens strong. And at its head, the largest beast Arya has ever seen. Even bigger than the last time she met. The direwolf turns, sensing its old master's presence. Seeing the eyes gleam in the darkness, Arya drops to her knees in the feet of snow.

"Nymeria…"

* * *

**Castlery Rock**

A long line of smallfolk trundle up the road from the city to take shelter within the Rock. Watching from the top of the legendary fortress are the clustered members of Daenerys' small counsel, with Varys among them.

"Is this truly it?" Jeyne Clifton murmurs. "Has the Long Night come again?"

"The North says the Wall has fallen and we have not seen the sun in three days," says Damian Lannister, Hand to the Queen. "If this isn't the Long Night, then I don't know what else you'd call it."

"The dead'll be rising soon, then," Rolland Crakehall grins in the midst of his solemn company. "I'll be getting one of those bloody red priests to light up my axe." As the huge man marches away and the others depart, more timidly, Damion notices the fear on Varys' face.

"We will be safe within the Rock, Lord Varys. You need not be so timid."

"It is not the White Walkers that I fear," the eunuch shakes his head, pointing to the mystic flames. "Our queen can defeat them. But at what cost comes this power?"

"You fear the Red God?"

"You do not?"

"I have never been a religious man. I only believe in power. And whatever these priests serve, their power is real. That cannot be denied. They will grant us victory over our foes, both the living and the dead."

"And then what?" Varys hides his face from the fire. "Once we owe them our lives, what will they ask from us in return?"

* * *

**Horn Hill**

The Tarly family dinner table is crowded with the family itself, Sam's companions, and the many visiting lords and suitors for the late Lord Paramount's daughter and heir.

"Sam," Talla looks across the dinner table at her brother. "Why has the sun not risen? Is winter always like this?"

"No," Sam shakes his head. "The Wall has fallen."

"And the forces it kept locked away are released," Mallora Hightower says ominously. "We must prepare for nightmares beyond imagination. There are arts that my father taught me that can protect us once the dead begin to rise."

"Lady Tarly, you can't intend to let this witch cast spells over Horn Hill," protests Lord Titus Peake, hard-featured, with a trim beard. But before Melessa can speak, Mallora answers.

"You are more than welcome to ride against the dead yourself, Lord Peake," the disheveled woman stares at him through orange eyes. "But if you so choose, I fear we will not have time to mourn your passing."

* * *

**The Vulture's Roost**

Arianne and her companions have been led by a party of Fowler guards, including the lord's twin daughters, to the rocky ruin high atop a mountain peak, at the mouth of the River Wyl. Once, the Vulture Kings of legend had taken shelter here. Now, the fugitive Princess of Dorne shall do the same.

"I wish we could stay with you," Jeyne Fowler grumbles.

"We must return to Starfall," Jennelyn chides her brash sister. "Even now, the wheels of war still turn. When the Darkstar arrives with the western armies, we must be there, or else he will grow suspicious of father." She looks up to a falcon circling overhead. "He watches us already."

Arianne looks up to the bird. She knew the stories that skin-changing ran strong in the Fowlers' First Man blood. The thought of it, she finds, is rather unnerving.

"He bid us give you this message," Jennelyn hands a scroll down before she and the other guards ride away. "Good luck, Princess."

As their escort departs, Arianne turns the scroll over in her hands before unrolling it. Garin is grumbling about having to leave the fineries of Skyreach behind while Elia chides him for his poorly hidden affections for his royal "cargo". If he had truly only wanted gold for guiding their party, she insists, he would have abandoned them long ago.

All this passes unnoticed as she reads the words writ in Lord Fowler's hands. Words that she knows will stop the world in its tracks. Rolland leans in, concerned at her shocked face.

"My lady, what is it?"

"The Tower of Joy…"

"Where Ned Stark defeated the Kingsguard? Where Lyanna Stark died?"

"Yes. That Tower belonged to the Fowlers. Lord Franklyn… he met Lord Stark after the duel, when he tore the tower down. He and Howland Reed did not leave alone."

"What do you mean?"

"Ned Stark carried a baby with him. A baby boy. Rhaegar's son," Arianne looks up to the endless sky above them, scarce believing what she speaks. "The true heir to the Iron Throne."

* * *

**Winterfell**

The defenders of the North gather in the Great Hall to enjoy a final feast, planned by Sansa to lift spirits before the final days of waiting begin. But not all are happy. Sansa can see that Jon and Daenerys remain distressed and sit apart, Bran is unnerved, retreating into himself, and Arya has not yet returned. In the far corner, she spies Mycah Manderly. The boy has not spoken to her since his return. At least she has Ladies Mormont, Dustin and Brienne for company.

At one of the tables, Gendry eats heartily. Suddenly, Davos takes a seat across from him with Mya Stone. The old knight eagerly pours mugs of ale for all three.

"The gods work in strange ways, boy," he laughs. "We thought you the last Baratheon. But here, at the end of the world… another! Your sister, Mya Stone!" Both bastards spit out their ale at that. "I'll let you youths get acquainted." As soon as he arrived, Davos is off again, wondering away to meet new comrades at other tables.

"So you're another of the king's blood, eh?" Mya examines Gendry. "I must say, I'm glad your old man told me when he did, I was of half a mind to take you to bed tonight."

"Did you know our father?" Gendry asks.

"I did. Ages ago. But he left. They always do. I loved a knight once. And sure enough, he left me just the same. I've come to find that men are good for the bed and very little else." She notes that Gendry has turned sullen. "Apart from you, though, I'm sure." He does not respond. Slowly, she begins to recognize a familiar look. "You're in love, ain't you? Is she here?" He only takes a long drink. She grabs the mug away. "Then go find her! I have better things to do than stare at your sorry face!"

As the feast dies down, Gendry creeps out into the drifted fields. He finds Arya asleep in the snow, wrapped tightly into the side of a massive direwolf. Fighting back crippling terror, Gendry creeps through the sleeping pack to her side. As he comes within reach, Nymeria's fierce yellow eyes snap open and snarl. Gendry jumps back, falling into the snow as Arya awakes and rushes to his side, calming the direwolf.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses.

"I… I didn't want you to freeze," he says through his own chattering teeth. "I saved you some ale and cheese. And a chicken. It'll be the last good meal before…" He pauses as the direwolf yawns, massive, deadly jaws opening wide before closing again as the beast rests. Arya looks down, as if it is a sign. She takes Gendry's hand and smiles, the first of her smiles he has seen since White Harbor.

"I hoped you saved your own chicken, bullhead. I'm mighty hungry."

* * *

**Along the Kingsroad**

The survivors of the destruction of Castle Black flee across the desolate landscape. There are but little over a score left. Beric has bid them hide beneath an icy crevice, sending scouts ahead. He has struggled to communicate with the Unsullied. Thankfully, the priestess Eres knows their tongue.

One of them has returned with Anguy, who reports back.

"There's a keep but a few leagues ahead."

"That'd be Last Hearth," Harys Swyft interjects, the nervous man old man eager to be helpful.

"We can take shelter there," Beric decides. But then he hears the dread flap of wings in the distance.

"Did you hear that?" Harys gasps.

"Of course we did, you damned rooster," The Hound claps the back of his head.

"Stay still!" Beric hisses and the survivors press further into their hideaway. Beric, however, creeps to the edge and peers up at the sky as a great shadow passes overhead. Two wings, a tail, a head silhouettes on the snowy wasteland, flying on to doom. It seems that the air has grown even colder.

* * *

**Last Hearth**

Hother Umber is packing the last books in the library when he hears the horns. As fast as his old, worn limbs will take him, he shuffles out to the ramparts, where he sees his brother peering into the storm. He knows by rights it is almost noon, yet it is the darkest of nights. The legends truly have come again. In the distance, the last party fleeing the keep can be seen on the road, torches blowing in the wind.

"What is it?" he asks.

"What does it look like?" Mors points out. Hother squints into the darkness. Slowly, he can make out the movement of massive, dark wings riding the wicked wind towards them.

"By the gods… The Targaryen girl?"

"She oughtn't be here, by all accounts," Mors muses. And then, as if on cue, the dark shape swoops down upon the road. The fleeing party scatters, but suddenly an eruption of sickly blue flame consumes them all. In that explosion, for an instant, Hother sees the beast clearly. And his heart stops cold.

"Get to Lord Ned! Get him out of here!" he shouts. Mors runs off, and Hother turns back. But now the beast is gone. He scans the sky from the ramparts, squinting into the wall of white, stinging ice crystals slashing at his face. And then, he hears a sound different from the howling wind. Wings. He looks up as the horrible visage of an undead dragon drops down out of the sky. In an instant, Hother and the gates to Last Hearth are obliterated in an onslaught of blue fire.

In the godswood, Mors can hear the ghastly roar as he and the dozen remaining guards flee through the abandoned castle, their young lord in tow. But there is no running from this enemy. A streak of blue fire cuts off their path and the massive form of Viserion crashes down before them. The dragon is torn and scarred, with sparks flying from tears in its chest. And astride it – The Night King.

The men circle around young Ned Umber as the Night King dismounts, a crystal sword in each hand. As he slowly walks towards them, they attack, first one-by-one, then all at once. But it makes no difference. Their icy foe's blades cut through them like through air. At last, only Mors in his bear skin, axe in hand, stands between Ned Umber and the Night King. And then, he hears it. A child's whimper, and the slash of a knife on flesh. Mors turns in horror to see one of his own fallen men, eyes glazed blue, with a bloodied knife in one hand and the dead boy in the other. The last thing Mors Umber sees before the crystal blade pierces his back is the eyes of his nephew, flicking to blue life.

* * *

**The Godswood**

The snow-covered wood glows warmly with the lights of the torch-wall as Theon rolls Bran along. They pause as a huge, shaggy unicorn blocks their path, hot breath steaming out from its nostrils. Lord Blackwood is there, stroking the beast's mane. Theon steps away to let them speak in private.

"I never thought I'd live to see a unicorn," he says. "I never thought I'd see any of this. And here we are. The Long Night."

"When I was a boy," Bran remembers, "those were my favorite stories."

"I wish I could have been a finer teacher for you, my lord," Blackwood sighs as his raven returns to light upon his shoulder.

"Teacher!" it caws.

"No. You saved me. I was lost. You showed me how I could live again. You and Sansa," he looks on to the hearttree and his mood darkens. "Should I tell Jon?"

"You are the Three-Eyed-Raven, I could not presume to…"

"I don't ask as the Raven. I ask as a boy who does not know how to tell his brother their entire lives have been a lie."

"Lie!" the raven caws. Blackwood pauses for a moment to think.

"The king will need a clear head if he is to win these wars. Perhaps it would be wise to wait until the fighting is over."

"I agree," Bran nods. "Good-night, Lord Blackwood." He motions to Theon, who dutifully pushes him further himself down the path. At its end, by the frozen pond beneath the weirwood, are his family. All have felt drawn here in this dark hour, but none stand close to each other, divided by secrets, pain and resentment.

Theon steps back as Bran wheels towards his siblings, but he beckons his guardian come near. All remain silent as snow gathers upon their brows. Finally, Sansa speaks.

"Bran… Will the capital march on Ser Jaime's petition?"

"I fear not. Their queen is beyond even his words."

"Then he should die," Arya states, bluntly.

"He will fight for us," Sansa disagrees. "We cannot execute good men for old crimes."

"Daenerys will want his head," Jon glares at Sansa.

"Daenerys does not hold court here, you do," Sansa snaps back. "What do you want?"

"I… I do not think I should be here…" Theon aims to leave.

"No," Bran stops him. "We've all changed. We've all made mistakes. We've all done things we regret, and seen things, felt things we will never forget." He looks around the small circle of faces. "But we survived. No matter what has happened, no matter what you think you are – killer, oath-breaker, monster - we are a family. We started this journey together, and our paths have brought us back here. So keep your secrets if you will, let your resentments be relieved. For this war, all our fears, all our hopes are one. Winter is here. We must face it together, or it will consume us all."

And so, beneath the weirwood, the last of the Starks clasp hand-in-hand. Jon. Sansa. Arya. Bran. Theon. They stand together again at last, and pray to whatever they yet hold faith to that they may see the dawn come again.

* * *

**Along the Kingsroad**

The survivors of the Wall pick their way through what remains of the final party to leave Last Hearth. Their wagons and several corpses still smolder with unnatural blue dragon-fire, the same fire that can be seen in the distance, consuming the Umber's keep. The Hound keeps his distance from the burning earth, shivering in the cold. This dark flame offers no warmth.

"We should search for survivors," Obara points to the castle.

"There ain't no survivors from that," Sandor shakes his head.

"You can't know that!" Swyft protests.

"The fooking Night King rode a damned dragon in there! There ain't no survivors!"

"I have to agree with Clegane," Beric calmly decides, and the others concede.

"Then we should keep moving," Eres turns south. "Make fast for Winterfell."

"No," Beric stops the priestess, staring across the darkness to the burning castle. "We stay here. Ever since my first death, I've waited for the great purpose that Thoros promised your god had for me. I had begun to fear I would never see it. But now I do. We make camp here and lay in wait until the moment to attack."

Eres does not take kindly to the contradiction, but she knows this party follows Beric, not her. And so they make camp in a small hollow. A slight fire is lit, hidden away from prying undead eyes. And Tom O'Sevenstreams strums away at his old guitar, aimlessly composing a grim ballad for the endless night ahead.

* * *

**Last Hearth**

Out of those slain here, only Ned Umber and the guard who slew him walk as wights. The other bodies, including Mors, have been cut to pieces and arranged in arcane patterns around the wierwood tree. This has been the wights' task, under the watchful eyes of Viserion. The late Umber lord has even taken the bloodied white bear cloak of his dismembered uncle for his own. And now, the work complete, the Night King returns.

The undead boy takes his master by the hand and walks him to the wierwood. The Night King examines it, and smiles before plunging his crystal blade deep into the trunk, through the face carved there oh, so long ago. He rests his icy, horned head against the bark and whispers in his crackling tongue. The red-sap eyes of the tree begin to glow with a blue light from within. The Night King smiles. And across Westeros, the dead begin to rise.

* * *

CREDITS

_And so it begins. I loved writing the Night King here, crafting a sense of power and dread like this was a lot of fun. I hope it worked well for you! There might be a while before the next chapter, I have a lot of other projects I need to finish first. Hopefully it will be worth the wait. The Battle for the Dawn is upon us!_


	21. Battle for the Dawn Part 1

**The King's Road**

Tywin Dondarrion wraps his blanket more tightly around him as his carriage hurtles along. He has not had a moment's rest since that terrible day in White Harbor. He looks to his uncle, across from him. A handsome if stout knight, Ser Cleoden Dondarrion sits in steel plate, mindlessly twirling his thin black mustache.

"Uncle," Tywin asks, "why has the sun not risen?"

"Erm, it's winter, my boy." Tywin does not ask again. It is clear Cleo does not know the answer, and doesn't want to admit it. Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream can be heard. The carriage careens to a halt.

"There's something on the road, ser!" their driver calls.

"Nothing so serious as to delay us," Cleo grumbles. "Stay here!" He points at Tywin and steps out of the carriage. As the door closes behind him, silence rules. Tywin hears his footsteps walk away, crunching in the frozen earth. And then, from the night beyond, a low rumble resonates, and then another, growls rising to a shrieking cacophony. These are no natural sounds, Tywin knows, his mind frozen by memories of the night terrors of youth. Feet, too many feet can be heard disturbing the snow and ice. For a moment, he thinks he hears his uncle cry out. And then nothing.

Tywin edges close to the door of the carriage, daring to peak out. Then, a slam against the wall. He throws himself away as another dozen pounds follow and the carriage begins to shake. Frantic, Tywin scrambles to the other door and flings it open. He falls out, crashing to the earth, face buried in the muddy snow. He scrambles to his feet just in time, dodging the carriage as it comes crashing onto its side. And then he sees them.

Crawling up and over the carriage, there are seven, maybe more, writhing shapes, hissing and clamoring over each other. What little light the stars and moon allow seems unable to illuminate them – they are holes in space, ambling cadavers of the night. And they are coming for him. Tywin turns and runs, sprinting blindly through the snow, away from the road. He has no thoughts, only to flee. Suddenly, the silhouette of a knight blocks his path. In the pale moonlight, he sees the lightning bolt of his house on the breastplate.

"Uncle?" he whispers. But as the figure lurches forward, he sees the face. His uncle does not have blue eyes. Nor a gaping gash in his neck. Suddenly, a flaming arrow burns through the night and into the face of not-Cleo. It shrieks, the most horrid shriek yet, and Tywin turns to see three horses rushing towards him. Strong arms lift him from the earth.

He remembers little else. Only a reassuring voice and the rhythm of hooves outpacing the dead.

* * *

**The White Knife**

The Manderly fleet remains moored at the head of the great northern river, the grim moonlight illuminating their great green sails and reflecting off the white plaster that coats their bodies. A long line stretching down from the Winter's Town flows onto the boats, as all those unable to join the fight against the dead board the ships to safety in White Harbor. Torch-wielding guards stand watch to light the way and defend from roaming wights.

On the shore of the great river, Marlon and Mycah Manderly stand watching the refugees board.

"I pray you, it is not too late to return with us," Marlon places a cold hand on his son's shoulder. "It is no less brave to guard the weak than to fight with the strong."

"My place is on the battlefield." Mycah refuses. "I owe this much to Winterfell."

"Mycah, you carry no guilt for your uncle's schemes," Marlon insists. "You owe loyalty to Winterfell, nothing more. Not your life." The boy does not respond, instead gripping the greatsword _Leviathan _even tighter, the cold steel burning his hands. "I have lost your brother. Do not lose yourself for pride."

"If we prevail, you need not worry," Mycah gives his father a final, cold embrace before climbing back atop his horse. "If we lose, we're all going to be dead soon enough anyway." Marlon has nothing left to say in reply. He can only watch as his son rides away into the night.

* * *

**Winterfell**

When Jaime Lannister is finally dragged from the dungeons, he expected to be blinded by the sun. In his imprisonment, he had long since lost track of days and hours, yet he knows by all rights it ought to be morning. And yet the sky is black and filled with stars, the thinnest sliver of a moon adding its light to the torches in the courtyard, where he is shoved down into the snow.

He is surrounded by a strange crowd of warriors – some Northeners, but others who he knows must be the dragon queen's Unsullied and Dothraki. Two of the bulky horsemen drag him before a dark-skinned woman in red robes, a flame tattooed on her shaved scalp. Even as he shivers, her gaze seems to warm him. And then he sees the pyre…

"What's going on here!" a woman shouts and he turns. Seeing the speaker, his dread grows even deeper. Sansa Stark stands with her brother Bran, and the bastard, Jon Snow. The boy Jaime met years ago is fully a man now, and looks every bit a king. And next to him, in a red-and-black armored gown, her white hair and dragon sigil unmistakable, can only be Daenerys Targaryen.

"My queen," the priestess ignores Sansa, bowing to Daenerys instead. "The day of the battle draws near and the storms worsen every hour. Our lord demands sacrifice."

"You will not burn men in Winterfell!" Sansa orders, but the priestess bids her no heed. By now a large crowd of knights and lords have gathered to watch the spectacle. The Dothraki begin to drag Jaime to the pyre when Jon steps forward.

"You heard my sister! This man is a prisoner, if you wish to execute him for his crimes, then he shall have a trial and face the sword."

"This man murdered my father," Daenerys insists. "I will execute him as I see fit!"

"Ser Jaime killed the mad king to save the people of the capital!" Brienne pushes her way out from the crowd. "He would have burned them all otherwise. I know you all have reason to hate him, but he is a man of honor, and he will fight at our side if you let him!"

For a moment, there is silence. Jaime's heartbeat begins to slow. His fear begins to fade away as he looks only upon Brienne. For a moment, he can forget the damned snow and the murderous eyes of the mob. In that moment there is only her. By the time he hears Bran speak, the boy's wheelchair is only feet away.

"No one here has more cause to wish your death than me," he says hushed. "But there can be no divisions in this war. Ser Jaime Lannister, do you pledge to fight for the dawn alongside the living?"

"I do, my lord," Jaime can barely speak.

"Then rise," Bran wheels back as Jon nods approval. "The Master at Arms holds your blade and armor. You may claim them from her." Jaime follows Brienne's lead towards the armory, a path that leads past the glowering dragon queen.

"After the battle, if we live" he vows, "you can burn me if you like."

Daenerys' eyes do not leave the Kingslayer's back as he walks away and the crowd disperses. Jon approaches with Zatarra, her red robes sprinkled with crystalline snowflakes.

"You have men deathly ill from the cold," he says. "If you must have sacrifices, burn them. But I will not have it done within Winterfell."

As he leaves to speak with his siblings, Zatarra shakes her head.

"He does not believe. Not fully, not yet. Who does he love more? You or his family?" Daenerys has no answer for that. "The cripple serves the creatures of the night and the girl is touched by our Great Enemy."

"The God of Death," Daenerys shudders. But she will not allow any doubt to creep in. "Jon loves me. And I love him. Nothing will stand in our way."

* * *

**Northern Valley**

All along the valleys leading North from Winterfell, the defenses have been well-built up, the hills and snow-covered fields alive with action. Barracks and catapults line the high ground and torches light the path that Bran follows as he rides in his special saddle, flanked by Lord Blackwood, Davos Seaworth and Theon, now fully outfitted in Stark armor, his face obscured by an iron wolf-helm.

They are met by Ser Kyle Condon and Hugo "Big Bucket" Wull, who command the Northern field forces.

"The eastern armies have not adjusted well to the cold," Ser Kyle braces himself against the worsening wind. "Maester Rhodry is without rest tending to them. But the cold has at least tempered their tempers. We've had only two brawls these last three days."

"Good," Bran nods. "And how do the fires keep?"

"A hard work that grows harder. But they burn still."

"You and your sister have done well, boy," Big Bucket barks. "The Ned would be proud of you both." Bran smiles at that thought. But it does not last long.

"Do not thank us yet, Lord Wull. We have not yet won the war. But I must thank you for bringing your men. You could have survived safely enough in the mountains."

"One way or another, boy, winter is death," The Bucket shakes his head. "I would sooner my men die fighting here than alone and hungry in the snow. As for me, I am old. This was always my last winter. Let me die tearing open the skull of a White Walker. Let me feel an icy spear in my chest. Let me die for the dawn. That's a death worth living for."

High above them all, on a plateau beyond the reach of the torches, lit only by moonlight, Daenerys guides Jon through the darkness, pulling him gently by the hand. They reach the clearing, and, as Jon's eyes adjust, he begins to see the dragons emerge from the shadow, steam rising from their nostrils and stars sparkling off their scales.

Drogon goes to his mother, Daenerys, but Rhaegal draws nearer to Jon. He pulls off his heavy gloves and places bare hands against the scales of the dragon's head, feeling the warmth within and breathing in its steaming breath. Daenerys is atop Drogon now.

"Climb on," she commands. Jon hesitates, but she insists. He gingerly pulls himself onto Rhaegal's back. The beast shakes at first, but slowly settles. Its warmth fills Jon through his heavy furs.

"I don't understand…" Daenerys is staring at him. "You have no Valyrian blood? Who was your mother?"

"My father never told anyone," Jon shakes his head. "But I can promise you, she was no Targaryen." Rhaegal growls softly at the sound of that name.

"I think he has always been waiting for you," she says. "You were meant for each other." With that word, Drogon takes flight, Jon clings to his own dragon as the powerful force of its wings, watching Daenerys disappear into the dark sky. He knows she wants him to follow.

He can scarcely believe himself now, trying to fly a dragon. He tries to remember what it was like before at the Bay of Ice. But it was no thought. It was a feeling. Slowly, he lets his fear go and tries to feel through Rhaegal - the wings, the talons and teeth, the fiery belly. And then he is in the sky.

Among the stars, silhouetted against the thin moon, two dragons dance in the night.

* * *

**Winterfell**

The shape of the dragons can be seen from the ramparts, where Sansa and Arya watch.

"That's Jon up there, isn't it?" Sansa asks.

"You feel it too?" The girl in Arya is in awe. But there remains a sense of fear. "Do you trust her?"

"She claims to want what is best for the people," Sansa asserts. "That is admirable. And Jon loves her."

"But…"

"The North has lost a thousand sons to win back its freedom. A good king would not sacrifice what we have gained for love."

"Do you think he would?"

"I don't know. I don't think I know him anymore. He rides dragons now. I pray he will never need to make such a choice."

"Aye," Arya nods grimly and offers a drink from a flask, but Sansa balks at the bitter ale. "Most likely we'll all be dead in a few days anyway. Let the Walkers sort us all out, then."

* * *

**The Red Keep**

Seven flames burn in the throne room, giving light to Queen Cersei as she sits upon the Iron Throne, massaging her swollen stomach, under Melisandre's care. Genna Lannister watches from a distance, ever more fearful for the queen and her expected child. She turns away and walks to the ramparts, where she finds Lord Commander Balon Swann, his white armor glowing with sickly torchlight. His tenure leading the Queensguard has been brief, but Genna thinks it seems to have aged the knight a decade or more.

Beneath them, the city is ablaze with fires. The sound of screams echoes even here. It is not so bad as it was, when the bodies first began to rise. The City Watch, empowered by the red priests, have patrolled without ceasing. But both know all too well that a growing horde waits on the other side of the city walls.

"What of the wildfire caches?" Genna asks.

"We have kept watch," Balon sighs, wearily. "But the queen forbade their removal. One exploded last night in Flea Bottom. The hovels still burn. At least those dead will not rise again."

"So that the dead will not rise…?" Genna shakes her head. "To think this is now what we concern ourselves with. I always laughed when my old nan told me such stories. They terrified Tywin as a boy, can you believe that? And yet here I've lived to see them."

"We live in legends, now, my lady," Balon says, almost proud.

"No. We are but mortals. They say the Long Night lasted a generation. Perhaps a new hero will smite the White Walkers and save us all. Or perhaps we will die before we see the dawn again. But when gods walk the earth, what is left for us?"

* * *

**Highgarden**

The shouts of a mob beyond the walls grows louder and louder every day. First it had been the Ironborn - Harras Harlaw, and his band of rebels, laying the castle to siege. Now, new smallfolk join their numbers, fleeing the darkness, the storms and the dead. They claw at the great white walls of the fortress and the conglomeration of lords hidden within.

Being castellan of Highgarden has never been an easy job for Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. But before, the bickering lords and ladies were only bitter. Now they are terrified.

It hasn't been all bad, he thinks, dressing himself in his small chambers, gazing over at the still sleeping gardener's daughter. At least there were some sensible people here.

Finding the nobles clustered in the Lord's Hall, he decides he has had enough, and calls his Captain of the Guards, Ser Roger Norcross.

"Man the walls and ready the gates," he commands. "We let them in."

"What?" Lady Oakheart shouts shrilly. "You cannot open the walls of Highgarden to those brutes!"

"We let them in or they die out there," Bronn insists. He will take no argument. "I'm not going to try and teach you lot how to wage war, but I trust you know well enough that it is better to reduce your enemy's number, not grow them."

He turns to command the walls with Ser Roger, but finds Ser Hyatt Hewitt barring his path. The young knight had lost most his family when the Ironborn took the Shield Islands.

"Ser Harras leads those men," Hewitt growls. "He and his rebels have murdered nobles across the Reach."

"You can face him yourself, if you'd like," Bronn glares, but the knight clearly has no stomach for such a challenge. "Then you'd best find a closet to hide away in with the rest. I'll take care of Ser Harras."

* * *

**Winterfell**

Arya finds Jon in the smithy. She supposes he is looking for Gendry. Word of Robert's bastards had traveled quickly through the camp. But the brash bull has finally been driven off to a much needed sleep.

"Do I have to call you 'your grace', now?" she asks, startling Jon.

"Not unless you want me to start calling you princess," he laughs, and they embrace. This is the first moment alone they have had since his return, as they've struggled to rebuild their family. "I thought you were dead, you know."

"There were days I thought the same thing."

"I see you had Needle to protect you."

Arya smiles and presents her sword, her last gift from Jon, playfully jabbing at her brother. It feels good, to jest with him again.

"It's served well. I doubt it will do much good against the dead, though. Gendry is making me a dragon-glass spear."

"Gendry," Jon muses, looking at the empty anvil. "I hear he's got a good deal of Robert in him. He and father always had planned to join our houses."

"No, it's not like that!" Arya protests, her mood souring. "He's just a friend. I can't… I don't think I could ever see him like that. Or anyone."

"Arya… what happened to you all these years. Where were you?"

Jon stares at her, and suddenly her fears begin to creep back in. This is how she had known he would look at her when he realized she wasn't that same little girl anymore. But Bran was right. This is not a time for secrets.

"I learned what I needed to survive. I was hurt. I hurt others. Now I don't know what I have left. Being back here, with all of you, with Nymeria… It's the first time in years I've felt the girl that left Winterfell so long ago. But that girl isn't me anymore."

"Arya, there's nothing you've done that could…"

"You know what happened to the Freys?" she asks, coldly. "That was me. I killed all of them. Some with poison. Some with knives. Every last one. And so many others."

"Arya…" Jon struggles to find words. "We've all done things we regret."

"But I don't. It felt good. It felt just. I'm not ashamed of what I've done. It's the living that haunt me," She feels Jon's hand on her shoulder, but does not turn. "But the God of Death is coming for us all. And some nights, I think I want it. I don't know how to live like this. I gave up love to survive. And I'm tired of running."

"You're my sister. I love you. We all love you. No matter what."

Finally, she turns back to him.

"You shouldn't. It will only make what comes next worse."

* * *

**The Godswood**

Sansa kneels beneath the heart-tree. Earlier today she had prayed in the Sept, with Yohn Royce and the knights, but she had felt nothing. Now she comes here, to the strange tree where her father prayed, where her brother speaks to the past and sees across the world.

Now she prays to the Old Gods. She cannot even say for certain what she is speaking, or if it is only in her head. Her mind is full of clouded thoughts of fear and anger and guilt and perhaps a little too much wine. She calls out for peace, for security, for guidance in the face of the end of all things. She does not even hear the wheels approach.

"I've had Theon load your things into the wagon," Bran says. "They wait for you."

"I don't want to go," she grumbles. "I should be here with my people."

"Many of our people are on the boats. They will need you there. And those of us who are left will need you when this all is over."

"When this is over… Can you see what is going to happen?"

"Better than most, perhaps. I can see paths, like lines in sand. I can say where they might lead, if they fall into place. But nothing more."

"I wish you could," she muses.

"I don't. I do not need another burden. Such knowledge would only be a curse. We must all make our own mistakes and victories in turn."

They are back in the yard. She can see Lady Dustin and Maester Rhodry in the carriage already. Standing by are Jon, Arya, Theon and Brienne in turn. She looks back to Bran for a final embrace.

"Thank you," he whispers in her ear. "You never gave up on me, even when I was lost." She passes down the line, all that is left of her family, offering final good-byes. She wonders which of them she will ever see again. But as they step away and she moves towards the wagon, a final figure appears – Mycah Manderly.

"My father will see you to safety, my lady," he bows, formally. But she does not leave. Instead looking at the snow melted in his wavy hair and the lights playing tricks upon his features. And in his eyes… in his eyes something she cannot describe, but yet has always wanted. Something that she killed. Finally, the tears come.

"I'm so sorry…"

"The fault was mine. I failed you."

"No… I was a fool to believe such lies. I would have had your lord uncle murdered."

"I believed those lies myself, my lady. And I cannot blame you for seeking justice." She can read the sincerity in those eyes, dark-green. Will they be the blue of a wight by the next moon?

"Serve well, Mycah." is all she has left to say. His is the final embrace. And then the door of the carriage is closed, and she is being carried far, far away. She closes her eyes, and dreams of spring.

* * *

**Highgarden**

Bronn stalks through the crowd of smallfolk, flanked by Ser Roger and his most loyal knights, as well as little Tybolt Wythers, the squirrelish squire that had been hoisted upon him by yet another house seeking favor with the castellan of Highgarden.

His eyes stay peeled for Ironborn or anyone else holding a weapon more evolved than a spare pitchfork or plow, though he knows such haphazard weapons have torn down several great families at the urging of their self-proclaimed liberator. And now they reach his tent.

Ser Harras Harlaw sits ominously behind a haphazard table, in full armor and surrounded by guards, awaiting his guests' arrival.

"Ser Bronn of the Blackwater," Harras grins politely. "I have heard many tales of your exploits. Tell me, how does a sellsword come to stand between me and Highgarden?"

"A fine story we can share once your followers are safe within my walls."

"You mean to let us in?" Harras is surprised. "Those haughty lords will deign to sully their fortress with the likes of us?"

"Highgarden don't belong to them, it belongs to the queen. And I'm her voice here. Funny how that works out. So I can't let all the farmers and the bakers and the potters get torn to pieces, now can I?" His sharp ears begin to hear muffled shouts in the distance. His sword-hand twitches. "More importantly, when you're fighting the dead, the less bodies the better."

"You hear that?" Harras stands, shouting to his followers. "Highgarden is ours!"

"Not quite," Bronn motions to Ser Roger. "Bring the chains."

In an instant, Harras has seized his schythe. Both Ironborn and Reach knights have drawn swords, but Bronn remains calm. Outside the tent, the shouts grow louder to a deafening roar. The flimsy fabric tears apart to reveal a panicked old man.

"The dead are here!"

That shout spreads as an echo and at once the mob is in motion, a throng of hundreds rushing madly to the white walls that have safety locked away behind them.

"Boy! Get to walls and open the gates!" Bronn yells at his squire. The lad, terrified out of his wits, turns and runs back, disappearing into the sea of people. The Ironborn rush to follow, but Bronn stands his ground.

"You don't get to just stroll into my castle as a conqueror, Harlaw. You want to save your little rebellion, you go in chains." These terms are clearly not acceptable to the rogue knight, who lashes out with his scythe. Bronn ducks beneath the blow and both sides crash into each other, a tiny battle on an island in the middle of the stampede.

One by one knights from both sides fall, Bronn himself kills two Ironborn and shoves an armed villager back into the mob to be trampled in the stampede. He turns in time to see the long black blade of Harras' scythe remove Ser Roger's head from his shoulders, coming to rest at Bronn's feet. There is only the two of them left. Two and a crippled knight whose death-cries are muffled to oblivion by the horrified clamor of the crowd.

By all rights, Bronn thinks, he should just flee now. But this damned knight has killed his one friend in this damned kingdom. And so he lunges forward, sword in hand. The scythe is long, and Harlaw swings it wide. It's deadly hard to get close enough to strike.

Suddenly they find themselves alone on the field, save for lone figures lurching forward

in the darkness. The dead are near. Even in the cold, he sees sweat dripping on the Ironborn's brow. The dead are nearer. His sword meets the scythe, steel on steel ringing out, answered by a growl from the dark. The dead are here.

Forget vengeance, Bronn thinks. He turns and runs. Harlaw follows, making good pace despite his heavy armor. Bronn can see the panicked guards already raising the gates. But from the ramparts is lowered a single rope, surely his squires works.

He is no religious man, but he thanks the gods as he seizes the rough rope in both hands, swings his feet onto the wall, and begins to pull himself up for his life's worth. Beneath him, he can hear Harlaw's screams as the dead take him. Let that one join their number, he curses.

Craning his neck back, he sees the fields awash in blue moonlight. Except for the writing black splotches on the earth - the wretched masses of bodies and limbs eager to consume them all. And for the first time in his wildly lucky career, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater feels despair. There's no way out, he thinks. Bar the gods themselves coming down, there's no way out.

* * *

**Winterfell**

Silence lays heavily over Winterfell as Davos Seaworth inspects the defenses on the ramparts one last time. The last survivors from Karhold had limped through the gates this morning, if it had truly been morning, and confirmed the Army of the Dead was but a day's march away. Davos salutes each sentry and leaves them with warm words, the only warmth that can be offered on a night such as this.

Retiring inside, he finds Jon Snow in his chambers, the red knight Duncan at guard by his door. As the chamber door closes, Davos shudders.

"Duncan is a loyal friend," Jon assures him.

"I fear I do not find it so easy to trust their kind, my king. I cannot forget what the Red Woman did to Shireen. Any god who welcomes such crimes has no blessings I desire."

"Melisandre was one woman," Jon assures him, distantly. "You have seen their power. We cannot win this battle without them."

"And, of course, the Targaryen girl holds their counsel," Davos probes skeptically.

"Queen Daenerys," Jon corrects. "I trust her judgement."

"Very well then," Davos sees his king does not wish to discuss this further. "May you sleep well. We'll all need what rest we can get." He leaves the chambers calmly, but knows he himself will find no rest. As he leaves, he passes Daenerys and Grey Worm, but thinks nothing of it. Surely there are other restless souls to pass the time with.

Daenerys reaches the door of Jon's room before realizing her general is still with her. Over the years, she has learned to read the emotions even in his stoic face. And tonight he feels grief.

"What troubles you?"

"My queen, I should be with my men, not behind these walls."

She places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I want you here, defending me."

"You have your white-cloaked knights," he shakes his head. "It is you who wants to protect me. I am no child."

"No. But I made a promise to Missandei, to keep you safe."

"I will not hide away while my men die. I once thought my love was a weakness. But I have made it my strength. I vow I will not die until I see Missandei of Naath again."

"Then go, my general, and fight for the dawn," Daenerys watches as he leaves, before silently slipping into Jon's bedchambers. As for Grey Worm, he paces the halls until he finds a blazing fireplace and an assortment of wayward fighters sharing drinks and stories in the embrace of its warmth – Jaime Lannister, Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne, Davos Seaworth, Theon Greyjoy and Brandon Stark.

"Join us, Torgo Nudho," the strange little lordling smiles from his wheeled chair. Gray Worm does not question how the boy knows his true name. He simply accepts a mug of sour drink from Davos and joins this group of old enemies, united now against the night.

"Sing us a song, Pod," Bran requests. "A song for spring." Grey Worm's basic grasp of the common tongue does little to explain the tune, but he can tell the meaning nonetheless. And so by the light of the fire, they listen to a sweet voice sing a song of hope, and wait for dawn to come.


	22. Battle For the Dawn Part 2

**Near Last Hearth**

In their small cave hideaway, the survivors of the Wall wait. It has been some time since the bulk of the dead passed. But the dragon remains within the ruins of the Umber keep, still burning with blue flame. And with it, surely, the Night King. Beric keeps watch.

The endless night is silent again, at last. For days the sound of the trudging Army of the Dead had been without end. But now they are gone, and with them their storm. Peace is returned. The peace of nothingness.

At last, he sees the sight he has been waiting for. Like a giant, dark bat, the shape of the dragon floats up out of Last Hearth, a shadow against the stars and the aurora, sparks spraying from its wounds. As it sails over the horizon, Beric returns to the group, first running into Tormund Giantsbane.

"Ready the others," he commands. "It's time to avenge your daughter."

* * *

**Winterfell**

"The counsel shall begin soon, uncle. We should leave." Lady Lyanna Mormont walks briskly from her chambers. Ser Jorah watches her leave. He had finally broached the truth of his identity to her. The girl seemed barely fazed. Jorah doesn't know what he expected. His last family in the world, and she barely knew him before his exile.

So he follows her to the chambers of the War Counsel, where the rest of the lords, ladies and commanders lay their final plans.

"The Walkers will not enter the fray," King Jon is explaining. "They will stay to the edge of the battle, commanding the dead. If we can eliminate them, the wights will collapse."

"Once I locate the Walkers, our outriders will eliminate them," Bran adds. "The goal must be to hold them off until their masters are slain."

"And what of this Night King?" Daenerys asks. "What of the monster that slew my dragon? Where will he be?"

"He will come for me," Bran says ominously before commanding the assembly. "Go to your places. They will be here soon."

The meeting disperses and now Jorah is mounted in the yard, alongside the six warriors of his Queensguard. As he turns to leave, he salutes Lyanna. But for all his effort, he can only see her as his niece, not his lady.

"Stay safe, uncle," she returns the gesture. As he leads his knights in their white armor out through the gate, Jorah turns back to look one last time. But she has already moved on to the ramparts, commanding those who await the battle.

* * *

**The White Knife**

A chilling night wind blows low over the decks of the Manderly fleet. Every wind is a night wind in times such as these, Ser Marlon Manderly thinks. He stands on the bow of the leading ship, trident in hand, green cape black in the darkness and blowing in the wind. His ears are tuned open, eyes peering into the darkness, alert for any disturbance. At times, he can hear the shrieks of the dead echoing from the shores. Those cries chill deeper than the wind.

Beneath the deck, Sansa sits with Maester Rhodry, Lady Dustin and Lord Manderly. She fiddles with a dragonglass dagger, a gift from Jon, feeling the rocking of the water beneth her.

"If they lose, what do we do then?" Lady Dustin breaks the silence, grimly.

"We will not lose," Sansa insists.

"Your confidence is admirable, princess, but you must be prepared. If your brothers fall at Wintefell, it will be you who will lead us. A Queen in the North."

Sansa is half angered, half embarrassed by the suggestion. She turns away to hide her red face. Wyamn only scoffs.

"You would laugh at your queen?" Lady Dustin glares at the fat lord. "Had you more respect for her, perhaps we could have all been spared much tragedy."

"It is no matter," Sansa turns back. "Jon will not fail us. We will win and we will see the dawn again."

* * *

**The Western Flank**

_How like ghosts we must look_, Jorah thinks, looking at the six members of the Queensguard, their white armor and cloaks glowing in the night. Two Dothraki, two Unsullied, two Western knights. Quite the odd troop, he supposes. And all led by an outcast slaver. _We have all come so far._

They stand at the highest point on the western ridge of the valley leaving down to Winterfell, among rows of catapults and fuel fires, fortified to command one side of the defense against the approaching dead. He looks across to Ser Kyle Condon and Lord Burrus Magnar, who command this side of the valley. He glances more warily at the priestess Zatarra, who tends to the fires. Tonight they will see if their carefully laid plans will stand strong.

The mounted horse of the North, Vale and Dothraki, alongside the Skagosi unicorns, will funnel the dead down into the valley, the far end blocked by Unsullied in a mound-and-moat blockade. There they will be set upon by fiery traps. And the dragons...

As if on cue, the snow flies up into their faces, caught up in a powerful wind as the two great beasts descend out of the sky. Jorah is still in awe of how large they have grown. He kneels as Jon and Daenerys dismount.

"They are almost here," Jon reports. "Be sure the fires and the men are ready."

"Ser Jorah," Daenerys turns to him. "You cannot defend me in the air. Join the Queensguard to the outriders, your steel is needed there."

"My queen, if something were to happen in the battle…"

"I can defend myself," she insists, halberd strapped to her back. "If you wish to fulfill your vow, promise only you will return to me when we are done."

"Of course, my queen," Jorah bows again as the dragons with their riders take to the sky once again. With their flight comes a crippling winter wind down from the North, carrying with it cutting ice and snow. For a moment, all is white, as Ser Regis Clifton's white cloak is whipped into Jorah's face. When he tears it away, he can see them. Coming down the valley, a massive black writhing mass that no light dare touch. The Army of the Dead.

There is a part of him frozen in terror, wishing to just stand here and watch the approach of the unholy creatures. But that is not his place. He forces himself to turn away from the night and mounts his horse, his men following suit. Zatarra comes near.

"The night is dark and full of terrors." she whispers. "Give me your swords."

Jorah has no love for the woman, but out of duty extends _Heartsbane_. Again, his men follow in kind. The priestess walks down the line, whispering arcane spells, as one by one each of their swords bursts into flame. The last to light is Jorah's. As the Tarlys' Valyrian steel roars to life, Jorah can feel the heat through his gloves.

"May the Lord of Light guide your hands," she says.

Jorah thinks perhaps there is meant to be a response to this, some traditional tome of the Red God. But he does not know it. Nor would he care to return it. He only raises _Heartsbane_ to the sky, flicks his reigns and calls to his men.

"Ride! Ride for Daenerys!"

* * *

**Last Hearth**

There is no living sound coming from the ruined fort, but Obara Sand can just make out the ambling shapes of the dead soldiers still left to guard. A lone raven silently circles overhead.

"The gods are watching us," Munda whispers, cinching the binds of her furred hood tighter against the brutal wind.

"Your gods are the gods of our enemy," Eres glares. The priestess has never seemed bothered by the cold, Obara recalls. But now, even she shivers. Their force is meager, but not hopeless. A dozen Unsullied, the Hound, Tormund and Munda, Harys Swyft, the priestess, and Beric's last surviving followers – Anguy the Archer and Tom O'Sevenstreams.

"Follow my lead," Beric commands, but Obara pulls him aside.

"What are we looking for?"

"I don't know," the one-eyed lord admits. "But I know whatever I've been kept alive for is behind those walls."

"That doesn't seem like the wisest strategy."

"Clegane and Giantsbane will folow me. You and the others lead the dead away and kill as many as you can. I do my job, maybe we save the world. That's our strategy." Obara nods and he pulls her in close. "Whatever happens, you hear, don't let that witch near me. After tonight, I'm done serving her god. I've lost enough to get here."

Now Beric turns, but Obara pulls him back one last time and looks into his clouded, dark eye. She remembers their conversation beyond the Wall. A lament for the life that had been stripped away by death again and again. She had hated him, then. But now…

"Her name is Allyria," she says. "She has violet eyes. And she never stopped loving you, even when we swore you would never return."

Slowly, it seems, the spark of remembrance stirs in the lord's eye, and for a moment the stars dance in its reflection. Then, Beric Dondarrion has turned away, and the party stalks towards the fortress.

* * *

**The Godswood**

Theon Greyjoy shivers even in the warmth of the blazing torchwall the red priests erected to defend the godswood. The frigid metal of his iron wolfshelm threatens to freeze to his skin, biting like ice. The wolves don't help.

There are at least two dozen in the pack, led by the direwolf. Every now and then he can see their glowing eyes staring out from behind a tree, or hear their growls somewhere just beyond the shadow. It seems they are all watching him. Do they know what he did here? What he set in motion?

He is grateful it is not just him and the wolves here defending Bran. Lord Tytos Blackwood has hand-selected warriors to protect the boy. As he approaches, the tall lord seems made of light and shadow in his red-enameled armor and black feathered cape, his silver hair dusted by snow.

"My prince, what can you see of the battle?" he asks.

"The dead have entered the valley," Bran replies, coldly. "You shouldn't be here. I don't want anyone else to die for me."

"We've already discussed this, Bran," Blackwood insists. "We cannot afford to lose you. If we are to die, it is an honor to die defending the Raven."

"The Night King wants me himself. He won't let the wights harm me until he arrives. And there's nothing you can do to stop him."

Blackwood shakes his head. "You don't know that." He turns, the raven feathers of his cloak flapping in the wind, and holds high his ancient longsword, _Remembrance_, to address the men.

"My friends! You come from many different lands, many different loyalties. But today we stand together as one! The last vanguard of mankind against those who would destroy us. What does the Night King want? To kill our memory! For this is what makes us human! We are bonded by a shared history. When a stranger loses a mother, you feel their pain. When they find love, you share their joy. Why? Because you know what it feels like to lose and to gain!"

"This is what lets us come out of our caves and down from our trees, to make villages, to plow fields and build families! We feel. And so we are human. The Others think that is our weekness. But it is our strength. Will you stand with me to save our souls? Will you stand with me against the night that never ends? Stand with me to defend the dawn! And when they write of the new age of heroes, they will write our names!"

The men cheer, and Theon cheers with him, shaking his bow defiantly in the air. Now he feels warm. Now he feels brave. In such company, who could not? But if he would have turned back to see Bran in his chair, he would have seen the prince's eyes rolled back in his head, and looking paler than ever before.

* * *

**The Weirwood Plane**

"You're dead," Bran says.

He stands alone in the godswood, encircled by a wall of fire. And on the other side of the fiery barrier is Bloodraven. The last bearer of his powers. His mentor, who died where he spent the final decades of his ancient life, buried beneath a tree. And yet there the old man stands.

"You of all should know that nothing is ever truly dead. You are the Three-Eyed Raven," he speaks, barely parting his lips to let the gasping air out. "Yet you have profaned this sacred ground. You bring the Red God's sorcerers into your godswood, they defile it with their fire."

"The fires protect the tree," Bran insists. "The Night King has corrupted the others."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps he uses them for their true purpose. To access powers you are too frightened to use," Bloodraven smiles. Bran had never seen him do that. His teeth are clean. And sharp. "You never learned your true purpose, did you? And that still gnaws at you. I can see it. You're still playing at being a boy, when you are a god. Let me in. I will show you"

Bran looks through the fire. He can't lie. He wants to know. He needs to know. But the eyes. Bloodraven's eyes. They're blue. As the old man steps forward, Bran yells with all his might and the flames roar louder.

"Your mistake," Bloodraven spits. Slowly, the skin of his face begins to frost over. Horns tear through his scalp and the flesh falls away. There is only the Night King now. In an instant, Bran is back among the living. His guards are cheering. And he knows they are all about to die.

* * *

**The Riders**

Jaime Lannister sits atop a northern horse, a dragonglass lance strapped to his handless arm. At his side hangs _Widow's Wail_. He looks around at the collection of knights and warriors assembled. Bronze Yohn Royce. The Manderly boy. Even Snow's great white direwolf. And Brienne. She is mounted next to him, armed with _Oathkeeper_. The halves of Ned Stark's blade reunited at last, he thinks. Fitting they should be fighting for his home.

"Are you ready?" he asks.

"For this?" Brienne scoffs, but when the light of a torch passes over her face, he sees terror. "To fight dead men? To kill the sorts of monsters old women scared me to sleep with? By the gods, I'm not ready. No man could be."

"Well, you are no man," Jaime smiles. But she only shakes her head. "What will you do, if you survive?" he asks. Good to take her mind off the approaching doom. He does not like to see her frightened. It makes him think of his own terror.

"I shall continue to serve Lady Sansa."

"Princess Sansa now, isn't it? It's hard to keep track, these days."

"It matters not. I serve her all the same."

"And if her king-brother and his mother of dragons decide to wage war and take the throne? Will you ride south to battle?"

"I will go where my lady commands. What will you do, if that happens, Ser Jaime?"

He hesitates to answer, turning away. "If the dragons do not burn me? I will go home. To defend my family."

"To Cersei?" He cannot tell if she speaks anger, judgement or disappointment. Or all three.

"She is my family. And she carries my child. Whatever evil she has done, I must defend her. As you must your lady Sansa."

Before Brienne can respond, he hears shouts, the Queensguard has arrived, waving flaming swords in the air.

"Ser Jorah," Bronze Yohn calls. The old lord has taken command. "Are your men the last of our number?"

"Indeed."

"Then let us ride. For the dawn!"

* * *

**Last Hearth**

The party of warriors creeps through the ruins. They have passed several undead, shuffling sentries yet unaware of their presence. As they step into the yard, Obara notices old Harys Swyft holding back.

"This is no time to turn craven!" she snaps, in a hushed voice. "If you were too scared to fight, you should have stayed back to die at the Wall!"

"My fighting days are long past," Harys protests.

"You are a knight!" Obara pulls him along behind her until he finally begins to walk by himself again. "A man does not stop being a knight simply because he gets old!"

Turning away, she begins to march back to the front of the group when a deafening crunch cuts through the night. One of the Unsullied has stepped upon something – a stick, or perhaps a body. It makes no difference. Across the yard, a crowd of dead men turn. One's jaw drops open in a blood-curdling scream and all is in motion in an instant.

Following Obara, the bulk of the group flees into the ruined keep, the horde of monsters close behind. Just before she ducks inside, she catches a last glance of Beric, his men, Tormund, and the Hound, running straight for the godswood.

* * *

**Atop Drogon**

The battle is in full force now. The valley below is full of fire, but it seems as soon as one starts, it is extinguished again, whether by the brutal frozen winds or smothered by the sheer number of wights swarming like black devilish ants far on the ground below. Daenerys can hear every scream. She can no longer tell the difference between the howls of the dead and the cries of her own men, soon to join their number.

And so she drops down again, down through the clouds and towards the earth.

"Dracarys," she whispers, though Drogon has long since matched her instincts. He no longer needs a command to know when to burn. But it feels good all the same, to feel the power of releasing fire down on the earth, engulfing a long swath of advancing wights. Their plan is working, she thinks, looking across the valley to where Jon flies atop Rhaegal. They will win. She will kill the Night King, as Zatarra and the others prophesied. Humanity will be saved by her hand and none will dare defy her. She breathes in the vision of power, of liberation, as Drogon rains down more hell into the valley.

And then it appears. She feels it before she sees it. Her lost child. The one the demon had stolen from her. Viserion.

* * *

**Atop Rhaegal**

Jon has never felt so free. Even in the face of endless devastation and death, he cannot ignore the thrill of racing through the air, breathing in clouds and raining down fire from atop the back of a dragon. And to be up here with Daenerys, to match their attacks in time, the beauty is undeniable.

And then the third dragon appears. Jon cannot see its rider, but he knows. He knows that the hideously scarred beast with its blue fire carries the monster that has haunted his dreams ever since that night in the woods at Craster's Keep. But the undead dragon does not attack them, nor does it attack the men on the ground. It continues to fly south, even past Winterfell. To the river. And the boats. And Sansa. Willing Rhaegal turn, Jon gives pursuit. It is time to end this.

* * *

**Atop Drogon**

Daenerys wants to scream after Jon as he flies after Viserion. She wants to turn around and pursue it herself. It is her child, and that monster is meant to be her victim. But again she hears the cries from the valley. No, she tells herself. This is the plan. These are her people. And this is her place.

* * *

**The Riders**

The riders charge down through the night, led by the flaming swords of the Queensguard. There are eight, Bran had told them. Eight White Walkers ride with the Night King. Eight demons to slay. Brienne grips her reigns tighter and rides on.

Those in the whitecloaks who follow the Red God claim the fires of their swords lead them to their target. But all Brienne can see in the night before them is darkness and trees. Suddenly, a shout cries out and one of the white cloaks topples from his horse, a crystal spear piercing his breastplate.

"Attack!" Yohn Royce shouts! "In the trees!" The horses scatter as a dark figure drops from the trees onto one of the other riders, slashing his throat and spearing the horse. As the shadow rises, Brienne's horse freezes in terror, and her blood seems to freeze. She cannot look away. Icy skin, gaunt as a skeleton, a face utterly devoid of life yet all too terrifying alive, all angles and no natural edges. A white walker.

"Move, woman!" a man shouts and two of the Queensguard, a Dothraki and Unsullied barrel past her, charging the Walker. It draws a sword, seemingly of living ice, and with a single chop takes the leg off the first horse and seizes the spear of the other rider with its other hand, dismounting him.

The Unsullied is the first to die. Brienne tries to bid her horse nearer but the beast refuses. Hearing a cry from further ahead in the forest, she turns her mound towards it and rides on. Only a few pale moonbeams infiltrate the clearing ahead. She sees Lord Royce already dead on the ground, with another rider she does not recognize. Mycah Manderly is left standing, fighting a losing battle against a White Walker.

Steeling herself against fear, Brienne charges. Seeing her approach, Mycah lashes out with the full length of _Leviathan_. The White Walker easily dodges the clumsy attack but steps right into Brienne's path. With a heavy sweep of _Oathkeeper_, the creature explodes into a thousand icy crystals.

"Where are the others, boy?" she asks.

"There!" Mycah points through the darkness to where flaming swords can be seen. Brienne nods, and rides on, Mycah following swiftly on foot.

Snow goes flying as Brienne crashes through low-hanging branches. Not seeing the creek bed in the dark, her horse suddenly gives way beneath her and she plummets to the ground. In a moment, wights are upon her, snapping rotten teeth at her face. She fights back to her feet, hacking away with _Oathkeeper_. Then she hears a snarl. Turning, an undead wolf growls, half its face torn away. She braces for impact, but as it lunges it is brought down by Ser Merlon Crakehall's burning axe.

A panting Mycah Manderly finally arrives, and together, the three turn back into the fray, hacking through waves of wights towards the other torches further down the creek. Her heavy armor sends Brienne's feet crunching through the thing ice covering the slight puddles of water that remain, but she tries not to notice.

First they come upon Jaime, on his back, holding back a furiously snapping wight with the shattered ruins of his spar still tied to his ruined arm. Brienne swiftly decapitates the attacker and helps him to his feet, cutting through the spar's bindings with a knife. He cries out as the dagger pricks his skin in the dark.

"I'm sorry, ser…" she hastily apologizes.

"Gods!" he almost laughs. "A little dagger is the least of my worries."

"Where is the Lord Commander?" Ser Merlon demands.

"He rode on ahead," Jaime limps off further in to the woods. Brushing aside leafless branches and pine nettles, they find Ser Jorah and another Queensguard facing off against a Walker, their white cloaks swirling like specters in the knight, two swords of flame against one of ice. In an instant, Jorah seizes an opening, and Heartsbane cuts a path of fire through his opponent. He looks up to see the new arrivals.

"Look out!" he calls. Brienne turns in time to see an icy javelin rush out from the night, landing in Jaime's side. He drops to the ground as the Walker from the first ambush returns, two crystal swords in hand.

"I take it that means Ullo and Black Dog aren't coming back," Merlon growls, and he and Mycah rush the Walker. But Brienne rushes to Jaime's side. Even through her gloves, her fingers nearly freeze as she pulls the javelin loose. There is no blood, the wound is frozen over, frost forming around the hole.

"No, no, stop it," Jaime pushes her away, grimacing as he drops back to the ground. "Do your duty!" Reluctantly Brienne turns and rushes back into the fray. In a cavalcade of swords, the Walker can yet hold its own against three opponents. But once Ser Jorah arrives with Long Spear, that is too much even for this beast of winter, and it falls to a swift thrust of Mycah's _Leviathan_.

The weary and battered riders pause to catch their breaths, their enemy momentarily vanquished.

"Did anyone else make it?" Mycah asks.

"I doubt it," Ser Merlon looks back into the dark forest. The fires of his axe have started the edges of his thick beard to smolder, but he does not seem to notice.

"There's yet another flank left," Jorah asserts command. "And we're down to two horses, it seems."

"Wait," Brienne interjects, trying to think back. "Did you kill another Walker before we arrived? The prince said there were four. I killed one, you another, and Mycah…"

"Where's the fourth…" Jorah muses ominously. They turn back to the battlefield only to see Jaime painfully hoisting himself atop one of the remaining horses at the edge of the cliff. He points down to the valley. In the distance, the lights of the western encampment can be seen atop the hills. And below, them, slowly and silently approaching, a crowd of black, writhing shapes, led by a mammoth.

"Oh, gods no…" Jorah gasps. Brienne rushes towards Jaime, but the knight shakes his head. She can already see frost glistening on strands of his frozen gold hair.

Without a word, Ser Jaime Lannister flicks the reigns of his horse and rides down towards disaster.

* * *

**The Eastern Flank**

"Fire!" Lord Hugo Wull howls into the night as his catapults loose their flaming cargoes into the night sky and down on the undead army below. The Big Bucket turns momentarily to watch the red priest Duncan as he tends to the fires, readying their weapons to be launched again. It is then that he spies movement rising on the rear of the hill.

"Behind!" he shouts, but it is too late. The shadows rise like a tidal wave behind him, a wave of bodies, warped and twisted, that crash over the unsuspecting troops. The fire pots are tipped over, setting ablaze to living and dead alike. Duncan and his flaming sword are overwhelmed, and the wall of darkness and fire keeps coming.

The Bucket cleaves the first tattered wight to reach him cleanly in two with a heavy blow of his battleaxe. And then the wave washes over him.

And the lights go out.

* * *

**The Western Flank**

Across the valley, one by one, the flames upon the hills go out.

Ser Kyle Condon feels despair creeping in, like chilling fingers of frost. He clings tighter to the cold iron of his trident.

"They've seen through the trap," he whispers. "That shouldn't be possible! They're just dead men. Dead men and monsters."

"Do not care what they are!" Lord Magnar yells out to Kyle and the rest of the terrified troops atop the hill, the lobster claws woven into his long beard rattling as he shouts. "They kill us! We kill them! Keep fighting."

The troops rush back to tending the fires and loading the catapults, but Ser Kyle falls back, to where the priestess Zatarra stands in the light of a blazing firepot.

"Those ones will not trouble us," she says, alarmingly calm. "They will avoid the blockades and march on to Winterfell."

"We have to warn send warning!"

"There is no way," Zatarra shakes her head. "If your prince's powers are as great as he claims, they will know." Kyle curses his helplessness, and then realizes an even more dread thought.

"My lady, if the dead outflanked the eastern camp…"

"They are already here," she points behind them.

"Turn! Turn! They're at our back!" Kyle shouts, but the dead are already there. The ground shakes as countless feet come rushing towards them, and the thunderous hooves of a mammoth rumble nearer. The men are overwhelmed in moments, there is no stopping the dead. He sees Lord Magnar disappear under the weight of five wights. His trident skewers three in turn, but more and more rush past him, with dizzying affect. He feels but does not see as his trident is wrenched away and he is thrown to the ground.

And then Zatarra is at the firepot, knocking it to the ground. With a roar like a thousand lions, a fiery ring rises up from the ground, creating a barrier of protection for Kyle, Zatarra and the handful of survivors from the groaning, straining horde just feet away.

* * *

**Atop Drogon**

All Daenerys's feelings of power begin to fade as she watches the fires beneath her blink out, one by one. It's not possible, she thinks. But it is. Her men are dying. For a moment, she curses Jon for leaving, but then puts Drogon into a dive. Fire erupts along the eastern fortifications. The Bucket had commanded this side. She had liked him and his boisterous praises. The old mountain man must surely be dead now. And how many others?

She turns to the western flank. She can see a circle of survivors protected by a horribly small ring of fire. At least Zatarra has not failed her. She dodges the survivors as Drogon rains hell upon the wights surrounding them, including a great mammoth that bellows in anguish as it bursts into flame.

But as she turns back, a dark figure leaps down from the burning beast. She does not even see the frozen spear as it tears through Drogon's wing. She only hears his pained cry. And then she is falling.

* * *

**The Western Flank**

At his side, he hears the panting of the great white direwolf. Behind him, there is only darkness and night. Ahead there is only fire. His horse whinnies at the sight, but Jaime Lannister jams his heels into its sides and bids it onwards. He can no longer feel the right side of his torso. There is only cold. But that arm was useless anyways. Now he can only cling to the terrified horse.

Does he even still have a heartbeat? From the moment he was struck, his blood has begun to freeze. Every passing breath grows harder, slower, colder. He can feel ice on his tongue, frost on his eyes. But he rides on. He sees the dragon rise, haltingly, shrieking back into the sky, a dozen wights clinging to it. A monstrous sight. But he rides on.

He passes through the fire and he is there. But the sight of the White Walker is finally too much for the horse. It swerves, and with only one arm to hold with, Jaime is thrown to the earth. The burnt earth sears the left side of his face. But he cannot stop. Stiff joints bend, creak and align as he straightens and draws _Widow's Wail_.

He sees the frail group of survivors clustered around the fallen queen. The queen who wanted him burnt. For a moment, a voice in Jaime's head screams to let her die. An enemy. What had he had killed her father for, if only to see her take back the throne from his own family? But no. That voice must be killed. So instead, as the White Walker turns towards him, he screams defiantly.

Perhaps his vocal cords are frozen, too, and he has made no sound, But the Walker attacks regardless. And with an impossible strength, he swings Valyrian steel down again and again, each blow parried in turn by his enemy. But he does not tire. He has never felt so alive. It seems as if there is a fire in his veins, melting away the ice of winter as he fights on. A true knight slays monsters, he thinks.

The direwolf bites and snaps, almost in tandem with his blows. It howls as crystal blade lops off an ear. And then, a lucky lung of fangs catches their foe's sword arm for just a moment. But it is a moment enough. _Widow's Wail_ pierces the Walker's chest. As it explodes, ice shards lodge in Jaime's face. At last, he allows himself to fall.

Lying on his back amidst soot and snow, he looks up at the sky. All he can see now is the stars. He has never seen so many in his life. He is back a child again, counting the constellations with Tyrion at the edge of the rock, sharing stories of the knights of legend. You're be up there one day, Jaime, his brother would say. You'll be in the stars.

Then Brienne's blurred face obscures their view and he feels her shaking him.

"Jaime, they're headed for Winterfell. We have to go."

But he can't worry for Winterfell anymore. He can't worry for anything. For a moment, he sees another world. A little world. A small world. Peaceful. With no worries of what legends they would sing of Ser Jaime Lannister. There was only him. And Brienne. And a child. His child.

His child.

He seizes Brienne's arm with his good hand. For a moment, her eyes are clear. Creaking through ice-clogged blood, he prays she can hear him.

"Brienne. Please. Don't let them take the child."

"No, no," she protests. "You're fine, you're fine, it's not even bleeding…"

"Please!" he pulls her closer as icy fingers grip his heart. "Swear to me. No more innocents will die for me. No more…" In her eyes, he sees her acceptance at last.

"I swear."

His grip loosens. His head falls back to earth. He never feels it hit the ground.


	23. Battle for the Dawn Part 3

**Winterfell**

Above the gates, Arya Stark overlooks the battlefield, There is not much to see. An endless expanse of blackness, marred only by brief bursts of flame. She can feel Gendry close behind her. She wishes he were somewhere else. She does not want him to see her die.

"The fires on the eastern flank have gone out," Lord Glover declares. She hears frightened murmurs echo from the guards along the ramparts.

"The walls will hold," declares Podrick Payne, Captain of the Guard. He speaks boldly, but cinches his armor tighter, betraying his nerves. Then there is a shout. Guards begin to point. Arya turns with the others to see the swarms of shadows lurching out of the black in the east, straight to them.

"They're here!" Pod yells. "Present arms!" In an instant, flaming dragonglass arrows begin to rain down on the approaching army, the catapults within the yard unleash their payloads, but nothing seems to slow the dead. And then, as they near, three hulking shapes come into view, leading the pack.

"Giants!" A guard yells. "They have giants!"

Arya grips her dragonglass spear tighter and stares death in its face.

"Let them come." She glares out into the night.

"Let them all burn, 'Arry," Gendry shakes his head. "The further away they stay the less chance we die." Arya does not respond. And as she looks out to the war, the first wight slams into the walls.

* * *

**Last Hearth**

Obara sprints through empty halls. She cannot say who runs with her, their group has splintered down corridors, drawing the undead soldiers at their heels further into the winding maze of the fortress, hopefully further and further away from Beric. Their mission is not to fight, but to run. And then they are out of places to turn.

Taking time to mark their surroundings, she finds at her side Munda, Ser Harys and two Unsullied. The one door into this room is slammed behind them, the Unsullied ramming their spears into the frame, further blocking entrance. But frenzied scratching and pounding already shakes the heavy oaken frame.

"The window!" Munda shouts. The Unsullied have already seen it, and are hoisting themselves out and up to a precarious perch on the roof. Munda follows, and Obara next, grasping for a hold in the crumbling stone and trying not to look down. But there are far worse fears in this night than a fall to the courtyard below. She is fully outside by the time she realizes Harys is not behind her.

"Get moving, rooster!" she barks at the old knight, but he shakes his head.

"Climbing is not for me," he says, without looking away from the creaking door. Obara tries to go back for him, but the rock her left hand is gripping breaks clean off the wall. She swings out and away, flailing for a new hold, her right hand loosening, until her wrist is seized by Munda's hand.

As she is pulled to the roof, she can hear the door give way. And then, whether spurned to stay by fear of heights, tired body, or perhaps a last gasp of honor, Ser Harys Swyft's final battle cry.

"Awake! Awake!"

* * *

**Winterfell**

The echoing thuds of the giants pounding at the gates can barely be heard over the mad clamor of battle. Gendry, however, is fully focused on helping hull a stone vat of burning oil. He and two other guards struggle to hoist it over the wall, until he is distracted by new screams. Turning he sees that the wights have piled up against the walls and are now spilling over the ramparts to attack. His hand slips from the vat and it crashes down, sending the fire jumping up at the men who carried it. One man falls over the walls, ablaze, but with a heavy kick Gendry sends the oil toppling down on the giants outside. The unearthly howls confirms the oil strikes true, but there is no time to celebrate.

"Arya!" he yells, looking about frantically. He sees her in the yard below with Pod, leading the guards standing ready in case the gates give way. He rushes to the nearest stair. Mya Stone tosses him his hammer, before bashing in a wight's face with her own.

"I've get to get to Arya!" Gendry yells over the chaos.

Mya follows him down into the fray, leaving behind the chaos on the ramparts. He passes Grey Worm fighting valiantly, but runs on, down into the yard. Dozens of guards stand ready behind Pod. In an instant, the mighty gates, already splintered, finally give way. A burning giant stumbles in, crashing to the ground with a sickening thud. The two behind it are not so injured and march in. Each carries what seems an uprooted tree as a club, which they swing down at the guards. And at their feet the swarm of wights begins to pour in.

"Winterfell!" Pod screams. But in an instant, the young captain is overwhelmed by sheer numbers. They stand no chance here.

"Get inside!" someone yells, but Gendry runs on, shoving fleeing men out of the way, for Arya has no plans to retreat. He finds her, hacking and stabbing at wights with the spear he made her. Mya at his side, their hammers swinging and smashing undead chests and skulls in tandem, they fight their way to her. He seizes Arya's arm and starts to pull.

"Let me go!" she yells, but as she resists, her spear sticks in a wight and it is wrenched out of her free hand. Mya grabs the other arm and the two bastards begin to drag her frantically through the mob of men, living and dead. They make it to the nearest door and dash inside, slamming heavy oak behind them. The walls may keep them safe for now. But it does not drown out the screams.

* * *

**The White Knife**

Ser Marlon's watch continues as the boats sail on. He shakes the visor of his helm, to ensure the hinges do not frost shut. It is then that he sees the shadows approaching. And then the roar. Two dread black shapes crash into each other in the sky above – dragons.

They claw at each other, shooting flame into the night sky; one burning orange, another sickeningly blue. He had heard tell that the Walkers had claimed a dragon, but this… this hellbeast is beyond his worst nightmare. Breaking away, it bears down on the fleet and unleashes a rain of blue fire. Two vessels erupt as it bears down on the flagship.

"Take cover!" Marlon yells, as if any on deck has not seen the danger. A futile gesture, he thinks, as the stern of his ship bursts into flame. The impact throws him off his feet, sliding across the wooden boards as the deck drops to one side. He catches a loosed rope, holding tight and looking up as the undead dragon turns back to finish its work. But then the other beast is back again, on the attack. And Marlon knows it is his king.

* * *

_**The Merman's Wrath**_

There is only a moment between the sounds of the shouting and the roar of dragonfire and when the water breaks through into the captain's quarters. Sansa Stark has time for a single, desperate gasp of air before the frigid wave slams her back into the wall.

She is stunned for an instant, but the sudden feeling of water filling her lungs snaps her back awake. Prying open her eyes she can see Maester Rhodry sinking into the darkness beneath her. It is peaceful, she thinks. But then her senses return and she knows it is death. Her insides screaming for air, she kicks desperately upwards through the water, towards the blue flame glistening on the surface.

* * *

**Atop Rhaegal**

Jon clings tightly to his dragon's back as it turns back for another strike. This is no longer the sort of awe-inspiring power he felt before. Now he can only hope and pray he doesn't fall from the back of the massive beast beneath him as it writhes in the air, snapping jaws and tearing claws at its undead cousin.

But he knows he cannot let up the attacks. Any relenting will let Viserion return to torch the remaining ships and the survivors desperately trying to escape the frigid river. Blue and orange flame roar back and forth as Jon clings tighter. He tries to catch a glimpse of the opposing rider, but cannot see clearly as Rhaegal's teeth sink down into Viserion's neck. But the undead dragon refuses to give up.

Seeing no other option, Rhaegal begins to dive, locked still onto his opponent, plunging both dragons and riders down, down into the icy water below.

* * *

**Winterfell**

Grey Worm throws another wight over the wall with his spear. He looks about frantically, he is the last man on the ramparts, save for a few guards cowering in fear. The wights that had piled on the walls now rushed through the gates. Some men in the yard were still fighting, but most have taken shelter. But there are still the giants looming tall, advancing on the survivors, led by the small lady of Bear Island.

Sprinting along the ramparts, mindful to avoid any slick ice, he dips the dragonglass tip of his spear into a stray fire and leaps. He does not take time to think. His training all his life has left him only instincts. And his instincts carry him from the ramparts to the shoulders of the first giant. He buries his spear down through its skull. With a shudder, the undead giant crashes to the ground.

"Get to shelter!" he yells in halting Common Tongue. The guards flee, but the remaining giant lurches after them. His great log-club smashes down, crushing two guards. Lord Glover stumbles to the ground in its path.

"Stand! Stand!" Lyanna Mormont charges in, waving a small dragonglass sword. She pushes Glover to his feet, dodging another swing of the club, she buries her sword in the monster's foot. Grey Worm watches, but he cannot leave the others, stabbing down another wight as they run to shelter. The giant reaches down and seizes Lyanna in its hand, raising her up in the air as if ready to bite the girl in two. But as the life is crushed from her body, she stabs out with her final energy, into the giant's eye.

As the giant crashes to the ground, Lyanna still in hand, Grey Worm takes a final look, hoping the bear-girl has somehow survived. But she does not rise, and Grey Worm must follow Glover and the others, and wish the Walkers do not claim his allies as their own.

* * *

**The Godswood**

Every man could hear the moment that the wights pierced the mighty gates of Winterfell. Every moment after that is one of dread, as they listen to the cries of their dying countrymen and the ever-nearer shrieks of demons in the night.

"Stay firm!" Lord Blackwood shouts. But Theon is shaking. They are safe behind the torch-fence for now. But how long will it hold?

"The archers should take to the trees," Bran says, calmly. Nodding, Blackwood passes the order on. Theon straps his bow to his back and begins to clamor up into the weirwood. Pulling himself up, branch by branch, brushing the blood-red leaves aside, he reaches the top of the tree. From here he can see the devastation. The wolves howl, as if they can feel the fortress burn. Or else they know what is coming.

The first wights have reached the torch-wall, but there they stop, waiting. And the ground begins to shake. The last of the giants from the gates is coming, running at a stampede towards them. Once in sight, the archers pelt it with flaming arrows, but it runs on until it crashes down upon the fence. The corpse begins to smolder, but its work is done. A path has been created for the wights to rush through.

A dozen or more battlecries ring out. "Winterfell!" "Remember! Remember! Raventree!" "Barrowton!" But there is one that deafens them all – no human cry, but the howl of Nymeria. As the dead pour into the wood, Theon sees his prince's eyes roll back white in his head. Moving as one, the direwolf and her pack charge to tear and claw at undead bones and sinew. The battle is here.

* * *

**The White Knife**

The wreckage of the boats still burns blue on the river as Sansa surveys the chaos on the shore. Her soaked outer cloaks stripped away, she shivers, but knows it would be far worse in full layers. She had barely survived. Maester Rhodry had not been so lucky.

She winds her way through the survivors huddled around the all-too-small fires they have managed to light. The surviving boats have docked on the shore, their parties fleeing to the surrounding hills, in fear that the undead dragon will return. Sansa, however, does not worry. Jon is up there, too. Her brother will protect them.

"Ser Marlon, continue to search the shore for survivors," she commands. "Ensure those on the boats dispense blankets, cloaks and drink to those by the fire. All knights not on rescue must guard the perimeter."

"My lady, we have the finest fur available for yourself," he offers.

"I am a Stark, Ser. I am sure there are others here who need your fur more than I."

As the Manderly knight marches away, she turns back to the fires. Another maester, one she does not know, is tending to Lord Manderly and Lady Dustin. For a moment she pauses to warm her hands by the fire. A Stark she may be, but cold is cold. It is then she hears tears. She finds the girl, a small little thing in rags, quivering from cold and fear.

Kneeling beside the child, she takes the two frigid hands in hers and smiles.

"Hush now, dear. What's your name?"

"J…J…J…Jonquil, my lady." Sansa smiles at that name. It reminds her of a simpler time. "I'm scared. My father said the dead men killed the sun! And now they come for us."

"Oh, no, the sun isn't dead. It will be back soon. Every night must pass," Sansa promises, but she can tell the girl does not believe it. "It isn't wrong to be afraid."

"You're not afraid."

"I am. I'm very often afraid, Jonquil. Do you know what helps me when I'm afraid? I like to sing. Do you know 'Flowers in Spring'?"

"There are no flowers here," the girl turns away, upset, and begins to cry again.

"But there will be," Sansa vows. "We have to believe." Carefully, she wipes away the tears and begins to sing. Slowly, more and more people huddled around the fires, highborn and smallfolk alike, begin to sing along, a song of warmth and hope and spring. And finally, with the slightest tremor of her lip, Jonquil begins to sing along.

* * *

**The White Knife**

Gasping for breath, Jon pulls himself out of the river. He checks to ensure _Longclaw_ is still strapped tightly at his side. He tears off his cloak and looks around. With a roar, the surface of the water erupts as Rhaegal emerges and circles back into the sky. It's quiet, Jon thinks. Too quiet. And then the surface breaks again.

Viserion pulls itself free with crippled wings, blue flames erupting from the gash in its neck. Without hesitation, Jon draws _Longclaw_. With a cry of "Winterfell!" he charges. The undead dragon breathes fire furiously but without control, the force of its own power throwing its head wildly back and forth. He side steps the flames and drops to the frozen mud, rolling underneath the beast's neck.

A spark from the wound singes his cheek. He closes his eyes, the blue fire to bright to look upon, but thrusts upwards with Valyrian steel. It lands true and he cuts with all his strength, until, with a great, final burst of flame, the head falls to the earth, the body following shortly.

Panting, Jon props himself back to his feet with the support of his sword. As the last embers of Viserion's fire burn out, Rhaegal comes back to land, letting loose a mournful roar for his twice-fallen brother. Jon, however, stalks the length of the body, looking for the rider. He glimpses the icy figure trapped beneath the side of the fallen beast. But as he grows nearer, he sees to his horror only the icy, skeletal visage of a White Walker. The Night King is not here.

As he plunges Longclaw down to finish the job, he turns back to Winterfell. To Bran. And he knows he has failed.

* * *

**The Godswood**

Theon has just loosed a burning arrow into the skull of a wight when he sees them. Men and wolves have fought valiantly against the endless onslaught, but now the dead freeze. Sensing something is wrong, the wolves begin to circle around the weirwood with the dozen remaining men. And then, slowly, the wights part for three horrible shadows, walking through the crowd. The flickering light of the last surviving torches illuminates three icy visages, walking stiffly through the snow. Their blue eyes glow through the night. Horns protrude from the leader's skull, as if to form a twisted crown. Theon knows this must be the Night King.

Reaching to his quiver, he feels one last arrow. Squinting through the eyes of his wolf helm, he takes aim. And then Lord Blackwood calls his battle-cry and violence breaks out again. With a scratch, the oiled dragonglass point lights and in a moment it is in the air. It hits the nearest White Walker right in the ear, and the creature explodes in an almost beautiful shower of crystal. But now the others see him.

An icy spear flies through the night. Theon scrambles back, but his hands grasp at nothing and he drops. He slams into one branch, then another, and finally hits the snow. Every bone aches as he picks himself up. And then he sees the Walker hunting him. And runs.

Theon doesn't look back, sprinting headlong into the trees. If the monster wants him dead, let it follow him away from Bran. He takes shelter behind a great sentinel pine near the bubbling, steaming hot springs. He stumbles in the darkness and recoils to find an archer's corpse at his feet. Stifling a gasp, he crouches behind the tree. Icy feet draw nearer. Crunch. Crunch. He pries free three remaining arrows from the body. But as he reaches for a fourth, the corpse's eyes snap open. Blue.

Now Theon screams. He seizes the lowest branch and pulls himself up, kicking back at the dead hands grasping for his ankles. Gloved hands slip on icy branches as he climbs up and up. Then the tree shakes. The Walker has leapt up into the tree. Theon still doesn't look back. There is nowhere to go but up. He crawls until he can go no further and feels icy fingers on his foot, chilling straight through the boot.

He slips down the trunk until he is face to face with the Walker – cracked white, icy skin, pointed teeth in a snarl. A frozen hand seizes his helm. He hears frost crackle across the helm, the steel freezes to his face. He had never known cold could burn. Until now. But it is in that moment he remembers what is beneath them. Kicking out with both legs, he launches himself and the Walker off the top of the sentinel and down into the pool below.

The heat is a sudden shock as Theon is submerged. His legs break against the bottom of the pool and he propels himself back out to air. Legs useless, he grasps at the surrounding rocks, pulling him free and onto dry ground.

Howling in pain, he tears off his helm, the dented, frost-touched metal tearing off patches of skin from his face. But the worse scream is from the pool behind him. Turning, Theon sees the Walker rise haltingly. The hot water has melted away its icy armor, eating away at what counts there for flesh, exposing crystalline bone beneath.

The shuddering beast collapses beside him. He almost feels sorry for it. Dragonglass arrow in hand, he stabs down. A weak blow, but it is enough.

"Winterfell!" he shouts victoriously, but there are only dead ears left to hear. The sound of fighting is gone. And Bran? Rolling over onto his chest, he props himself onto his elbows and begins to pull himself inch by inch through the snow, back to his prince.

Back at the weirwood, Bran finally snaps back out of the minds of the wolves. There is no more time for that. The Night King is here. Lord Blackwood charges, holding Remembrance high, the ancient runes glowing in the night. Bran wishes he could bid the man stop. To turn and flee. But he is bound to his duty. He swings again and again as the last of his men fall, but the King steps aside each time, finally seizing Blackwood's sword arm. With a sickening snap, Remembrance drops to the ground. The lord staggers back as a crystal sword pierces his crimson breastplate.

And now nothing stands between Bran and his foe. The dead stop in their tracks. The wolves have scattered, even Nymeria. And slowly, step by step, the Night King walks nearer. Bran feels the catspaw dagger in his cloak. But such an attack would be futile. He has no choice now. One hand grasps tightly against the face of the weirwood behind him. The other waits.

Now the Night King is before him, so close he can feel the icy breath. A gaunt white hand stretches out to seize him. And then his own hand is grabbing the icy wrist, then his lungs are filling with the cold, then his mind is free. And his enemy is with him.

* * *

**Winterfell**

Arya stalks frantically through the halls, trying to find her way back out into the fighting. But mostly, she is trying to get away from Gendry. The damned fool had dragged her away from her place on the battlefield. This was her chance, the one thing she could still claim as her own, to repay what she has done – to die a hero and to take as many wights as she could with her.

Flinging open a door she finds herself in a chamber overlooking the yard. All of the carnage can be seen from here. Fires burn across her old home. The dead run through the yard. Then the door is open again and Gendry and Mya are there.

"Get away!" she shouts, but Gendry seizes both her shoulders tight.

"No! I'm not going to let you die out there!"

"I won't let you make me a craven!" she pushes him away.

"Do you want to die?" he shouts back. "Is that it?"

She turns back to the window. Is that really what she wants, she thinks. To finally end this? To finally end the running?

_A girl cannot run forever. You must face the one behind you._

It's finally happened. She can run no further. The God of Death is here in Winterfell.

"This is what I'm meant to do," she says, coldly, turning Needle over softly in her hand. "This is what I am now. A sword"

"No!" Gendry is back at her side. "You're not a sword, you're a girl. A woman. You're Arya Stark. You're my friend!"

"I'm not who you knew. You've seen what I am now, you saw me in White Harbor. And I've done far worse than that!"

"That's it!" he stops her. "You're afraid! You, the one always telling the rest of us to be brave! And you're afraid. You're afraid that no one is ever going to accept you! You're afraid that you don't belong! And you'd rather die than face that!"

"I'm not afraid!" she shouts, this time shoving him to the floor.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Gendry doesn't get up this time. He stays on the ground, and looks away. For the first time, she notices Mya looking at her.

"You don't get to lecture us on knowing who we are, girl," she shakes her head. "I'm sure all sorts of terrible things have happened to you. But us? We're both bastards. I thought my father loved me. But he went away. I thought my lover cared for me, but he shunned me." She places the tip of her hammer heavily on Arya's chest. "No one else can tell you who you are, Arya Stark. Only you can do that."

Arya turns back out to the window. The wights swarm across the ground towards the godswood. To Bran. Between them lie the roofs of Winterfell. The roofs Bran had loved to run, when they were both still children.

_You can go anywhere you please up here, _he had said. _No one ever thinks to look up._

Out from the madness, a raven comes to rest beside her hand. It's black eyes stare up at her, curiously. She looks down, slowly recognizing Lord Blackwood's pet.

"What do we say?" it squawks. Arya takes a step back and the bird leaps from its perch, a flurry of black feathers in her face as it flaps around the room. "What do we say? What do we say?"

"Shut up, ye damn bird!" Mya swings at it with her hammer, but Arya stays her hand and answers.

"Not today."

Without hesitation, she leaps from the window, bracing for impact on the roof below. Her feet hit gently. They slip, but she catches her hand against the stone of the tower. She looks ahead at the treacherous, icy roofs. But what is ice and snow but water? She knows water. And so, one carefully placed foot after another, she runs, silent as a shadow, swift as the wind.

_Not today. Not today._

* * *

**The Weirwoood Plane**

Images flash past Bran's eyes, a blinding, blurring rainbow of the past. To be within the trees has never felt like this before, he is falling, falling fast, falling through time and space. He sees his own life blink by in an instant, all his joy and pain, all those he had loved and lost, spiral away, a speck in the history of time.

He sees a girl, a babe born amidst a storm. He sees Jon, born in his tower. He sees an evil-looking boy torment his brothers. And he sees the Lands of Always Winter, where the Night King's eyes open again.

Then he goes further back, centuries passing like shadows cast on a wall. He sees dragons, kings, Doom, wizards, a man with a flaming sword, the Children of the Forest at war with man, a winter with no end, White Walkers riding atop ice spiders, slaughtering men in their beds. And then he stops. He is in a weirwood grove, surrounded by the Children. Tied to the heart-tree, a panicked man, gagged struggles frantically to break free. Bran has seen this scene before. Slowly, the movement in the moment slows to a halt. And when the prisoner opens his eyes again, they are blue.

Bran goes to remove his gag.

"I know what they did to you," he says.

"Then you know what I must do," the Night King says. He is not so frightening now, not like this. He is just a man, a scared man. But his words still chill to the bone. "My purpose. I have waited centuries to complete this. I want to rest."

"It doesn't have to be like this. This isn't right."

"This is the only right!" the man shouts, straining at his ropes. Around them, the woods fades away, and new horrors rise up to take their place. Forests set to flame, dragons devouring women, blood sacrifices, the Children of the Forest casting spells as land sinks into the sea. "You more than anyone can see the truth. You're not one of them anymore, Raven. You can fly now. And what do you see from up in the sky? Do you see the fruits of men?"

Ser Ilyn Payne swings _Ice_ and Ned Stark's head hits the steps of the Sept of Baelor.

"Their passions will destroy themselves, but we do not have to let the world die with them. In the night, there is peace. In the winter, there is no more suffering, for there is no more feeling. Stop pretending. Embrace who you are. The Three-Eyed Raven. A god."

Bran's eyes shake from the horror, he turns back to face his foe, steeling his nerves.

"No. I am Brandon Stark of Winterfell. And mankind will not die today."

"A pity." The ropes fall away and the man is the Night King again. The illusion gone, icy hands wrap around Bran's neck. Now, instead of Children, they are surrounded by everyone – Father, Mother, Robb, Jon, Rickon, Sansa, Arya, Jojen, Meera, Hodor…. All covered in ice, their eyes blue. Blue. It is calm. Peaceful. All across Westeros, Bran can feel it, icy tendrils reaching through the weirwoods, spreading its calming hand over the land. He is afraid. But soon there will be no more fear. Only blue.

* * *

**Last Hearth**

In the Umber's godswood Beric, Tormund and the Hound fight their way through the wights that emerge from the shadows of the barren trees..

On the frozen earth below, Sandor cleaves a wight nearly in two with his sword, while Tormund's axe splits the rotted legs of another. Beric's burning blade lights their way through the maze of trees.

"The hell are we going?" Tormund shouts.

"There!" Beric points. In the clearing ahead, beneath pale blue moonlight, the weirwood can be seen, heart pierced by the Night King's crystalline spear, its red eyes glowing blue.

Standing between them and it, a vanguard of wights, led by a small boy who was once young Lord Ned Umber. And behind them, a white walker. Without hesitation, Tormund lets out a bloodcurdling scream and launches himself into the fray, Sandor close behind. Beric, meanwhile, calmly follows as they cut a path for him.

The undead child latches onto Sandor's leg, claw-like fingers and teeth tearing away. He tries to shake free but, unable to strike the boy, falls to the ground. Rolling over, he howls as the wight grasps at his throat. Sandor closes his eyes, and such does not see Tormund's dragonglass axe cleave the dead face in two.

Gagging and wiping away rotted brains, Sandor struggles back to his feet. A short glance at his wildling companion confirms – there are too many. Shoving through the crowd, they rush the walker together. Sandor strikes first, a brutal blow, but the walker's crystalline blade shatters his steel, a fragment burying deep in the side of his face. Off guard, an impossibly hard kick hits his leg with a sickening crunch. He drops to the ground.

"This is for my daughter, you icy bastard!" Tormund hoots a war-cry, but pauses mid-lunge at a sharp pain. Looking down, for a moment puzzled, he sees the ivy javelin protruding from his stomach, dark blood staining his furs. The walkers icy lips part in a smile as he turns back to Sandor, crawling through the snow for a weapon.

Before it takes another step, however, a dragonglass axe crashes through its head, exploding into a thousand crystal shards. Tormund Giantsbane, not quite dead, looks down at his work approvingly before crumpling down into the snow. And with him falls every wight in the castle. Lying sideways, Sandor locks eyes with the fallen wildling.

"I got 'im, Hound," Tormund grins, blood leaking through his gritted teeth.

"Aye, that you did, wildling," Sandor smiles back. "You done good."

As the life fades from Tormund, Beric walks forward towards the weirwood. His sword, outstretched before him, burns hotter than it ever has before. He locks eyes with the face of the tree, pierced by ice crystal. This is it, he thinks at last. He knows not what will happen next, but he plunges the burning blade down through the crystal.

As the ice melts away, the blue frost clears from all-watching eyes. Though flame wraps around him, lighting his body into a single burning beacon, Beric presses on.

The ice entrapping the weirwood slowly melts away and Beric hears a voice in his head urging him to thrust further, to burn out the heart of the tree itself. But instead, the lightning lord lets go. And then oddly enough, he sees his own scorched body fall back away from the tree, steaming as it hits the snow.

It is a strange feeling, he thinks, as he floats away from the godswood. He can see everything now – all across Westeros, the armies of men fight the dead. His young squire, Edric Dayne, hides safe within Blackhaven. A boy in a chair stares into the eyes of the Night King. Time seems to slip away until he cannot even recall what it was. And then he turns, and at last he sees her – Allyria. At last, he can see her again. Now. And forever.

* * *

**The Godswood**

Arya can see them below as she runs across the rooftops. Bodies litter the forest floor. And in the center of them all, beneath the weirwood, the Night King holds Bran by the neck, hoisted out of his chair. All the way here, she dances through every step. Everything Syrio said, everything Jaquen taught her, everything up until this moment, under a night sky with no end, has readied her.

_Every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson make you better._

She does not see the ice beneath her feet. She only sees where she must be. And her body does the rest. She leaps from the last roof into a tree. Swinging down onto the earth, she rushes on past the wights, daring barely even to breathe, as fast and silent as a shadow. She pauses, as close as she dare, behind a large trunk. Bran is so close. And with him, her foe. Arya can see its face now. And though he does not see her, its eyes cut to her bone, confirming what she already knew. Surely these are the eyes of the God of Death.

So close to end this. But she looks at her side. Needle is no good here. She needs something else. And then she sees it. Valyrian steel, a catspaw dagger, half-buried in the snow beside Bran's chair.

In an instant, she hears a rush, like a great wind come down from the north. It feels… cleansing. As if he too has felt it, the Night King drops Bran to the ground, holding back its hand, as if it is aflame. It yells a curse in a profane, icy tongue. The moment is hers.

Arya's feet dance across the ice, barely touching earth. In a moment the dagger is in her hand and the Night King has his sword. But her arm is swifter. The dagger stabs true and for a moment, as its crystal sword drops from its hand, the monster seems confused. Almost grateful. And then the face is gone, replaced by icy shards that vanish like stars into the night sky.

One by one, the dead men drop to the ground. Silence descends over Winterfell. Arya turns away to embrace Bran. His eyes are frosted over, red, burned handprints wrapped around his throat. But he breathes. He lives. It is over.

And so Arya weeps, heavy, salty tears of joy and laughter that do not freeze upon her cheeks, but roll down onto her brother's face. Facedown in the frozen mud nearby, Theon howls a victory cry. The wolves join in. And slowly, the softest and lightest of snows begins to fall.

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_There it is, the big payoff. I hope I delivered and it was worth the wait! (Ramin Djawaldi's incredible "Night King" piece would begin once the NK grabs Bran.) The game is going to be very different from here on out. As always, all reviews are greatly appreciated!_


	24. The Hero of Winterfell

**Winterfell**

In the Sept, Brienne washes a smudge from Ser Jaime Lannister's face. He lies in the Lannister armor he was captured in, alongside the other nobles who kept to the Seven. Daenerys had conceded to return his bones to her Lannister allies at the Rock. A fitting honor, she thinks. He died a knight, the knight he had always yearned to be.

She hears bells call out the final chimes, and bids a last farewell, gently placing hand painted stones over the green eyes she would never see again. With a final prayer to the Stranger, to guide his soul, she walks out of the Sept. There are yet more dead to tend to.

Outside the broken gates of Winterfell, the survivors of the Battle for the Dawn stand in attendance. Before them stretch out scores of massive pyres, spaced out across the snow-covered plain. The bodies of the fallen and the twice-dead are stacked together in a final monument, lords and commoners alike. When all is said and done, they are all the same.

Lady Lyanna Mormont. Lord Tytos Blackwood. Bronze Yohn Royce. Podrick Payne. And more. So, so many more.

Slowly, the selected few march forth solemnly, torches in hand. One by one, the pyres light, great pillars of fire sending smoke up into the grey sky. And somewhere beyond those clouds, they know the sun has returned at last. After a while, most of the mourners begin to turn and leave. Soon there are only a few remaining, among them Daenerys and the Starks.

They are there to see the weary band of warriors stumble home from Last Hearth – Obara Sand, The Hound, Eres, Munda, a handful of Unsullied. With them comes news of new losses to mourn. And new victories to cheer.

* * *

**Winterfell**

The Great Hall is alive with life once more, for dawn has returned. There will not be another Long Night. What greater cause could there be for celebration? Amidst the shouts and singing, however, Munda sits glumly amidst the festivities. Obara Sand, forcibly draining a mug of bland northern ale, notices her sullen face.

"You were never one to be so shy. Have some of this. Tastes like shit, but should liven your mood."

"I can't," Munda pushes the pitcher away, her freckled face flushed red as her hair. "My sister is dead. My father is dead. I'm the last Giantsbane."

"I didn't know your father long, girl," Obara muses. "But I think we both know he wouldn't want you to honor his death with misery. What would he want?"

"Too much drink and a warm body or two to share his bed with."

"Aye, it seems our fathers had something in common," Obara slides a flask across to her. This time, she takes it. "Here's to that!" They toast, and slowly, a smile begins to part Munda's freckled cheeks.

At the head of the hall, Daenerys Targaryen sits beside Jon Snow, presiding over the victory. She is still exhausted from battle, but her mind already drifts ahead. No time can be wasted. If reports are true, the dead ran rampant over Westeros. Now is the prime moment to retake her throne. So long as her army will follow her.

"A toast!" She stands, raising her glass. "To the joy of the living and the memory of those who fell to give us this new day!"

A cheer rises up, some man shouts her name and others join in from this crowd of people she has saved. It feels good to be praised again. But then young lord Cley Cerwin, already drunk, stands atop his table.

"A toast!" he slurs, before remembering what he had risen to say. "To King Jon Snow, the Dragon-Wolf, and to Arya Stark, the hero of Winterfell!"

At that call, there is a deafening roar, and Daenerys is reminded of whose castle she is in. Unnerved, she leans into Jon.

"I'll be with my own men," she whispers, thinking of the Unsullied and Dothraki in their makeshift housing. Clearly, Jon does not want to leave her side. "Don't worry, I'll be back with you once the feasts are through." With a last stroke of his hair, she turns to leave.

It has not gone without notice that the most praised hero of the night is absent from the feast itself. Arya Stark sits by the ruined castle gate with Gendry, watching Nymeria run with what remains of her pack.

"You know, they're toasting you in there," a gruff voice barks. Sandor Clegane hobbles forward on a crutch. "You're missing some good ale." Arya only smiles in reply. "I am happy you're alive, you know. Truth be, I wouldn't have bet on it."

"I would have sworn you were dead as well, so I suppose we're even," Arya quips. For a moment, the trio sits alone, watching the night and the wolves. Then they here more approaching footsteps – Ser Davos.

"Gendry, I have need of a word," the old knight requests, but Gendry is reluctant to leave. Sandor notices that Nymeria has drawn nearer.

"I think the girl wants some time to herself," he grumbles, urging Gendry to depart, before following him away with a last salute to Arya.

She turns back to Nymeria. The direwolf slowly walks nearer as the men's steps fade away. Finally, their heads are inches apart. Arya reaches out and strokes cold fur, feeling the warmth beneath as she presses her forehead against the great beast's skull. She can sense its spirit, she thinks. Their hearts move as one, beat by beat by beat.

And then, Nymeria howls, so close it nearly deafens Arya. Those golden canine eyes pierce her soul one last time, and then the huge wolf turns and bounds away, her family falling in line behind her. She has her own pack now, Arya thinks. Her own way…

* * *

**The Vulture's Roost**

The sun rises over the Red Mountains. Rays of light creep over the horizon, tracing their way through the crevices and valleys, reflecting up from the bare red rock and bringing the world back to life. It shines on Princess Arianne Martell, sitting cross-legged at the edge of a cliff.

She feels the cool stone beneath her hands, the sun's warmth as it passes her over, washing over the scars on her face. She hears the birds call, the soothing songs of thrushes and the cries of falcons. Somewhere far below, she can hear a river gurgling.

The winter is still here, she thinks, but the sun has returned. And she is a Martell. The sun belongs to her.

The peace is broken by shouts from the ruined keep behind her. Wrapping a pale blue scarf back over her scars, she walks calmly back to find Rolland Storm pulling a clearly shaken Garin out of a hole in the crumbling stone floor. Young Elia Sand is in the midst of mocking him mercilessly.

"You should have seen him, Princess!" she laughs. "He broke the floor!"

"I certainly heard him," Arianne smiles. "Though I'd thought that was your scream."

The handsome rogue trader sputters at that. "There's skeletons down there!" He points down into the hole. Curious, Arianne crawls down, carefully placing hands and feet upon the tumbled stones. She squints through the dark as the rays of sunlight begin to creep down through the hole, illuminating the broken crypt before her.

Bleached bones, long stripped of flesh, lie beneath mail and plate. A breastplate embossed with onyx mountains. And atop the pale white skull, a crown. Iron twisted into wings and a vulture's head with agate eyes that glisten in the sun's light. This must be the tomb of one of the Vulture Kings, the Dornish outlaws who had taken refuge here centuries ago.

The gods have heard her prayers at last, Arianne thinks. The sun has given her a sign.

* * *

**Oldtown**

One could be forgiven for barely noticing that so recently the great city was plunged into chaos and swarming with the undead. The mourners and the vigils they tend are the sole reminder, save for the sectors still scorched by flame.

In the harbor, Euron Greyjoy, Qyburn and their royal entourage board _The Silence_, ready to depart for the city. Missandei stands with Lord Baelor Hightower and his family, watching as Lady Leyla Cupps, now a Hightower again, boards the ship. Only yesterday, they had interred her husband, Ser Jon, slain defending the city from wights. Now she leaves for the capital, offered the seat of Mistress of Coin. Missandei will miss both of her former hosts.

"Remember what we spoke of," Qyburn whispers to her as he walks, the little bird Alys close by. "The new world needs builders." And then he is gone, and the Iron Fleet is sailing away over the horizon. Missandei's thoughts slip back to when she first arrived. This place had seemed magical. Now it is burned, the Hightower fallen, many friends dead and confusion reigns. But somehow, the magic remains. The old Hand is right. She belongs here. It is time to build.

* * *

**The Citadel**

Later in the day Missandei is in the Seneschal's office. Qyburn had handpicked archmaesters loyal to Marwyn's memory to take command, along with Lady Alysanne Ambrose, Baelor's bookish sister. The presence of women here would have outraged Ebrose and his allies. But now they are gone. Missandei can still remember the conspirators' echoing screams when Qyburn left them alone with a captured wight. "To study", he had said.

But no matter what passed before, it is a new day at the Citadel.

"The fool certainly left a mess behind," Alysanne grumbles, brushing thin black hair away from her eyes. She shuffles through piles of parchment and texts. "I'm glad you're here. I fear my Eastern languages are not as strong as they used to be."

Missandei smiles, glad to be of service. Soon, the surviving archmaesters will cast lots to choose the new seneschal. It is the dawn of a new era here in these ancient halls. She can sense the tension of change amidst the smell of old paper. This is what her queen came here to do, she tells herself. To bring a new age.

"Beg pardon, Alysanne," Baelor Hightower steps into the room. Lord Hightower, Missandei reminds herself. The quiet, pleasant man rules the city now. "We have received ravens from our brother and your lord husband at Highgarden. It has fallen into chaos, every lord and lady with a drop of the Greenhand's blood has come to press their claim."

"What is that to us? You and Arthur can play at politics, that is your lot."

"Lord Ambrose is liable to bite off the noses of the lords claimant if he's forced to preside over them for another day," Baelor shakes his head. "With your knowledge of the histories and law, you would be of greatest service there. As would someone of the Lady Missandei's diplomatic prowess."

"We're needed here," Alysanne protests. "The city must be rebuilt. The people need answers, they're scared and confused."

"And they will feel safer once there is a lord in Highgarden again," Baelor insists.

"My lord," Missandei interjects, "I must remind you that, grateful as I am, I still serve Queen Daenerys. I fear I would not be welcome."

"The throne's counsel are rational. Peace is peace. If you can stop this fighting before blood is shed, they will look upon you favorably."

"I do not desire Cersei's favor!" Missandei turns away, angrily. Suddenly, she misses her queen. And Grey Worm, so far away. Alysanne is also upset.

"She destroyed the Sept of Baelor! She murdered our sister's husband and children!"

"The disaster at the Sept was a terrible accident…"

"You can't believe that!"

"It is truly amazing what one can believe if they want it badly enough," Baelor maintains his calm. "What would you have me believe? That we ought to take up arms in revolt?"

"Pledge to Daenerys!" Missandei insists. "She will win, ever sooner with your armies."

"I think not. I am not so ill-informed. All news flows to Oldtown. I know the ways of your conquering queen. Dragons, Dothraki and Red Priests will not mean peace any more than the lioness and her mad kraken. I will not break our vows in rebellion. There are other ways to see that the future moves to our desires. A friendly hand moves truer than one raised with sword."

Understanding slowly begins to dawn on Alysanne's face.

"Leyla has always been horrid with coin. Why send her?"

"I have given Cersei what she wants to believe. Power over Oldtown. But our sister has many skills. Among them, deception. Gunthor was right in one thing. In times like these, those who cannot afford to choose a side must make their own. Now, what is your decision?"

Alysanne simply nods, while Missandei pauses to think. There could be great value in this, to win the Reach to it true queen. At last, she bows.

"I serve at your command, my lord."

* * *

_**Erich's Wrath**_

Yara Greyjoy, her hair shaved close to the skull, stands at the bow of Hotho Harlaw's longship. She has been under his protection ever since he pulled her from the waters of the Whispering Sound. She breathes in the salty spray as the sun creeps across the eastern sky. She had never been thankful for the sun until now. They had been adrift at sea, battered by storms, without its light for countless days.

'Twas the wrath of the Drowned God, Hotho had sworn, raging against Euron's blasphemies. Yara doubted that. But she can only hope that whatever caused the foul nightmare, that it had claimed her uncle.

At last, over the horizon, she sees it. Ten twisting towers clumped together, each a wildly different style and color, but all rising from the mind of Lord Theomore Harlaw, who had built the castle six generations past. Now it is ruled by her uncle, Lord Rodrick, called "The Reader". Home, she thinks. She had always preferred her time here to the grim misery of Pyke.

"Take this to hide your face," she turns to see Hotho holding out a ragged grey wool cloak. "You must hide yourself until we are secure. The king thinks you dead. No one can know you have returned."

"Who among the lords still supports my claim?" she asks, draping the cloak over her shoulders.

"Your claim?" The hunch-backed man is surprised. "You mean to take the Seastone Chair?" She nods. "I fear all but a silent few now bow at Euron's name."

"Who rules in his stead?"

"Erik Ironmaker sits upon the Seastone Chair."

"Ironmaker? Can that old fool even stand?"

"No man may answer that question, cousin, but he rules in the king's name, and says nor does naught but what Aeron Damphair whispers in his ear."

"I would expect nothing less," Yara laughs. "Have you forgotten, Hotho? My dear uncle speaks the voice of the Drowned God." And so they sail on. Yara pulls the hood down low over her eyes, the wool scratching her scalp. It is a shameful thing to hide herself in her own home. But soon all the Islands will see her face.

* * *

**Winterfell**

The Stark war room is notably emptier than it was a few short weeks ago. But it is no less unruly. Jon Snow struggles to manage the surviving lords and ladies while Daenerys watches, unhappily. She had made her feelings clear before this meeting. They would all be dead if not for her and her dragons and her armies. The northmen owe her their loyalty. Yet few of them seem to see it that way.

Sansa was right, Jon thinks. She knew how to manage this madness far better than I ever could. But she is away in White Harbor. And he is here. And king. How easy it was to forget. At least Arya is here. But where is Bran?

"Our armies are not ready to march," Lord Cerwyn is protesting. Lord Glover grunts his agreement, Lady Karstark nods as well. "Our lands are in turmoil and winter has only just begun. We cannot wage war now."

"We cannot house the army here either," Ser Kyle Condon reports. "Stores are already low, and we need them to last the winter."

"Then we march," Daenerys insists. "The more men that follow me south, the less mouths you have to feed." Cerwyn and Glover remain reluctant, but that logic stands.

"It is good to war," Lady Stane barks from the back of the room. "Skagos will follow the dragons to wherever we may find glory in battle."

"Then it's settled," Jon's eyes cross the room. Those assembled remain bitter, but at last silent. "We march through the Riverlands. Seek to ally with Lord Tully by eliminating the Lannister garrison. That gives us the North and the West."

"I can make no promises of Lord Arryn's allegiance without Bronze Yohn and Lord Baelish," Ser Albar Royce interjects. Leadership of the Knights of the Vale has fallen to him. "But I will petition on your behalf."

"You ought to send your sister as well," Daenerys looks to Jon. Sansa is much loved in the Vale, he hears. And Robin Arryn is her cousin. "But what of the force south? We must cut off supplies to the capital."

It is at that moment that Ser Davos clears his throat. Jon notices he has brought with him Gendry and Mya Stone. Odd members for such a counsel.

"My grace, beg pardon, but we have among our number two baseborn warriors of the Baratheon line. 'Tis in your rights to legitimize them, and give us leave to raise the storm lords to your cause."

Daenerys looks both of the tall, strapping youths up and down, then turns to her allies. Jorah, Grey Worm and Zatarra all nod approval. But she herself remains skeptical.

"Your father betrayed my father and took my throne," she declares. "Why should I not let his line die out?" Gendry is slow to speak, uncomfortable even looking at a queen, but Mya is quick to answer.

"Robert Baratheon didn't do shit for us either, your grace, pardon my language. We serve at your command, none other."

"Then you may serve me in this. You may take men of your own choosing to sail from White Harbor. Lord Tarth awaits my return. I will send you in my place. You are bastards no more, Gendry and Mya Baratheon."

Davos cheers at that, loudly and brashly enough that the others cannot help but joining in. Jon notes how red Gendry's face turns at that. But Arya's is even more so. With that final declaration, the plans are laid, and the lords and ladies depart to enact them. Arya rushes off after the newly dubbed Baratheons, leaving only Jon and Daenerys behind.

"Where is your brother?" she asks.

"He sent ravens throughout the kingdoms telling of our victory."

"I would hope we may require more of his powers than to serve as a messenger boy," Daenerys scoffs.

"I'll speak to him," Jon vows and departs. As he leaves, Zatarra approaches.

"The wolf with wheels will never aid you, my queen," she whispers. "Do not forget who his masters are."

* * *

**The Red Keep**

The small counsel chamber is morbidly silent. The scroll sent from Winterfell, marked with a Stark seal and signed by the names of King Jon Snow and Queen Daenerys Targaryen lies unfurled on the table.

From her seat as Master of Law, Genna Lannister carefully watches the queen. She can mourn her nephew later. Now, it is only Cersei's reaction that matters. Her eyes are dark from lack of sleep, face puffy, hair unkempt beneath her crown. She had always prided herself on appearance. This… disarray is deeply troubling, Genna thinks, stealing a side glance at Melisandre, who sits beside the queen.

"They killed him," Cersei finally speaks. "The Starks have killed my brother."

"My queen, the missive here states he died nobly, fighting the White Walkers," Ser Henry Staedman points out. "We owe our lives to him. He shall be well remembered."

"I do not want to remember him!" Cersei shouts. "I want him here! Get out!" She points to the door. The crooked-nosed knight is visibly confused. "I said get out."

"I believe the queen desires your departure, Ser Henry," Arthur Waters smirks. "Ser Boros, Ser Preston, see the Master of War back to his chambers." The two knights, no longer bearing their white cloaks, lurch forward. Their operation complete, they are now as strong and as docile as the Mountain. In huge, black Lannister plate, they follow an unnerved Henry as he hurriedly leaves.

"Cersei," Genna posits, "if we are to plan our defenses, it would be wise to hold Ser Henry's counsel."

"Winterfell cannot host the dragon queen for long," Arthur reports. "They will march south soon enough."

"I do not need Dondarrion's stooge to tell me how to wage war," Cersei glares. "The Lord of Light will show us the way."

"The same way he showed Stannis at the Blackwater?" Genna quips.

"We do not question the ways of our lord," Melisandre speaks. Her words never fail to chill Genna. She quickly changes the subject.

"But will your lord provide us gold? In light of the Manderly treason, we are in need of a Master of Coin. The Lord Hand..."

"We do not need a Master of Coin!" Cersei stands, clutching her pregnant stomach. "I have had enough of this prattling! I have all the counsel I need!" Angrily, she turns away and walks slowly, painfully out of the chamber, Melisandre assisting her. Young Arthur follows shortly, leaving only Genna and Ser Balon Swann.

Slowly the door, creeks open again. Dressed in garish red and gold motley, Tyrion Lannister waddles into the room, head cowed. The last of my family, Genna thinks. All dead or broken now. Tyrion extends a cautious hand with a new missive. It is marked with a golden seal, a spear with three skulls. Genna reads it and smiles.

"Ser Balon, take this to Ser Henry's chambers. The queen may stare into the flames all she wants, but it is our duty to defend the realm." The Lord Commander takes the scroll and exits promptly. Genna looks back to her nephew's aching eyes. "It must be driving you mad, not asking all those prying little questions you loved so much." Tyrion nods.

"You're probably wondering how I've hired the Golden Company, given our great debt." He nods again. "The Golden Company is the most powerful free army in the known world. They have no want for wealth. But land, land of their own… That is a different matter. And as it happens, we have an island fortress sitting empty at the mouth of our bay."

Slowly, a knowing smile creeps across Tyrion's face. His brain is still there, thank the gods, Genna thinks. A fool with no tongue is as good as invisible. But beneath the motley remains a mind. And so long as that mind and hers are aligned, they may yet save the realm.

* * *

**Blackhaven**

The Black Hall is alive with life as an exhausted Tywin Dondarrion is ushered in by the guards, alongside Ormund Storm, his late uncle's bastard, who had saved him from the dead men. He shudders at the memory. It seems that his father has brought every lord and lady within reach here to dine this evening. The Marcher Lords dine at the head of the room, the squire Edric Dayne among them. Tywin and Ormund are nearly at the Lord's Table before his father sees him.

"My lord, your son!" Lord Arstan Selmy points.

Slowly, his father's head turns and his dark grey eyes rest upon them again. Lord Harlan Dondarrion rises, dressed all in black, with a single strike of purple lightning embroidered across his chest. He clasps Tywin's forearm, as if greeting a soldier, and allows the faintest of smiles.

"Welcome home, son." His face quickly sours as he sees Ormund. "You may see yourself out. Eat in the servant's quarters, if you wish."

"Father, Ormund saved me…"

"This is no place for bastards, Tywin. Now sit." Tywin takes an empty seat at the table, where his mother ought to be, he thinks. Harlan watches Ormund's exit until the doors close behind him, before he finally reclaims his seat.

"We are all glad to see you are safe," Lord Selmy smiles, passing helpings of food towards the lad. The round young lord has clearly already helped himself. Bits of gravy stick in his sandy brown beard. Tywin eagerly begins to eat. His stomach has pained him ever since he left King's Landing. His father, however, has little patience.

"What of Ser Cleoden? Why did he not arrive with you?"

"Uncle Cleo…" Tywin squints, trying not to remember his horror. "He fell on the Kingsroad. I was the only one to escape."

"A pity," Harlan shakes his head, but he seems barely fazed by the loss of his last brother.

"Where is mother?"

"Taken ill again," Harlan answers, unconcerned. The Lady Penelope had always been a sickly girl, Tywin had often heard others whisper, and she had known more days of sickness than health in his memory.

"I'd like to see her," he says.

"You may see your mother and siblings later, son," Harlan commands, cutting harshly through his mutton. Lord Selmy passes a flagon of wine to Tywin, but his father quickly pulls it away and passes it back down the table. "You are of age to sit at my table. We have much to discuss. I need to know everything that transpired in White Harbor."

Another nightmare atop the last, Tywin thinks, his knees shaking underneath the table. He can feel the eyes of every lord on him now.

"I… I'd rather not."

"Don't be absurd," Harlan chides him. "You are a man now, Tywin. War is at hand. Now tell us what you know."

_War?_ he thinks. _After what has just happened, how can any man think of war?_ But his father is not any man. He knows his duty. And so, trying with all his strength not to stammer, Tywin begins to tell his story.

* * *

**The Tower of the Hand**

The lady Melisandre quietly returns to the quarters handed over to her in Qyburn's absence. In her chambers, a fireplace burns fiercely and a tub of hot water is already prepared. But as she disrobes, her dark red cloak falling to the floor, leaving nothing but the crimson jewel around her neck, she does not see the eyes that watch her from the shadows.

Tyrion Lannister still remembers every secret path in the Red Keep, even into the Hand's Tower itself. Now he watches the witch, his wretched sister's latest pet, prepare for her bath. She is truly beautiful, he thinks. Until, that is, she takes off the necklace.

Tyrion must clasp his mouth shut to not gasp at the sight of the red woman transformed into a horrid, wrinkled old hag in an instant. As Melisandre, or whatever she truly is, slips into the steaming tub, Tyrion's eyes stray back to the necklace, that seems to glow from its place on the dais by the fire. Her secrets are his now. It is good to play the game again.

* * *

**Ten Towers**

The Book Tower is the widest of the towers in the Harlaw keep, with eight walls, built of great stone blocks. Spiralling floor by floor, the walls are lined with books, scrolls, maps and treasures from across the Known World. No one has ever bothered to count, such a task would be nigh impossible, but many have claimed it the largest library beyond the Citadel walls.

It's keeper now shuffles up the winding stone stairs, carrying a small candle to light his path. Summoned to the tower by a steward in the night, he knows not why. The candle flickers over curled brown hair, browner eyes and a neatly trimmed grey beard. Lord Rodrick Harlaw finally stops when he sees another light glistening amidst the shelves. A candle sits on a reading table, next to a ponderous tome. Seated just within the glow of its light is a hooded figure. Rodrick approaches cautiously.

"A gift from the Humpback. Archmaester Marwyn's 'Book of Lost Books'. I can't imagine what you'd want with such a thing, but I was never one for reading." A woman's voice. He knows that voice. The hood is lowered. "It's good to see you again, uncle."

"Yara!" Rodrick nearly drops the candle in his shock, but catches himself and gently places it on the table as he rushes to embrace his niece. "They said you were dead!"

"For some time it seemed I was. We lost all sight of the sun."

"As did we all," Rodrick shudders at the memory. "We have heard all manner of tales from the mainland. We live in strange times. The dead rise, dragons fly, the glass candles burn, sorcerers work in Oldtown…"

"So I hear," Yara muses. "All the more reason the Islands cannot be ruled by a madman."

Rodrick nods, knowingly. "Did he hurt you?"

She sighs, heavily. "He took everything from me. Now we'll take everything from him."

* * *

_**The Silence**_

The sea is as black as the sky above, and so is the king's mood. Qyburn watches Euron as he silently broods at the bow of the ship.

"All that, to be over so quickly," he mutters. "It was to be the end of the world."

"And yet we still stand," Qyburn smiles. "I hope I may one day meet who we have to thank for that."

"Thank?" Euron shouts. "You helped me start this, old man! And you sit here and smirk that some fool has ruined it all!"

"My king, you earned a name for yourself in Oldtown, fighting valiantly against the dead. You are a hero. And I have awoken the grey sheep of these kingdoms to the powers in the shadows they had wished to deny. We both have what we want."

"A hero?" the king sneers. "I do not want to be a hero." He stalks away, back to his quarters beneath the deck. There, he finds Moqorro waiting by a single lit candle.

"The winds of winter are not so powerful as they seemed," the red priest speaks softly.

"I did not request your counsel," Euron grumbles fumbling around in the dark for a flask of Nightshade. But Moqorro does not move.

"You've had your fun, playing with ice and death. They were your first love, the first song you learned to sing." The small flame begins to burn brighter. He removes a glass candle from his long, red sleeves, looted from the late Lord Leyton's collection. "But now you see where the true power lies. Step into the light, my king. Our lord's summer knows no end."

* * *

**The Vulture's Roost**

"That was on a dead man's skull not an hour ago," Garin gags at the sight. But Arianne does not care. Night is fallen over the mountains, and they can only risk a small fire. But Arianne does not need to see. She needs only to feel, as Ser Rolland places the cold steel of the Vulture King's crown down upon her head.

She feels the cold ring wrap into her hair and rises, looking out to the vast blackness all around and the countless stars above. This is her land she thinks.

"Put more logs on the fire, Elia," she commands. "It is cold."

"My lady, too large a fire might attract enemy scouts," Rolland reminds her.

"Let them come," Arianne walks to the edge of the cliff, feeling the wind catch in the folds of her cloak, billowing out like black wings in the night. "I am done hiding."

* * *

**Winterfell**

Jon walks through the Godswood, looking for Bran. He has spent all day trying to find his brother, chasing one report after another, always seeming to just miss him. As if Bran is hiding from him. But he is about to end it. There's always tomorrow. He is tired, and Daenerys awaits him in his chambers.

But instead, he stumbles onto Arya, praying beneath the heart-tree. Startled, she spins around, reaching for _Needle_.

"Oh," she says. "Funny you should come. I was going to seek you."

"Why?"

"To say good-bye."

"Arya, I told you, you're at home now," he reaches out a comforting hand. "Nothing you've done matters. You're a hero now, everyone knows it."

"This isn't about that. I came back, I found who I am now. But that person can't stay here forever. This isn't home, not anymore."

"Father always said, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

"I know," she smiles, taking his hand. "And we'll always be family, just like father and mother are still with us, no matter what. But I think it's time to build a pack of my own."

Slowly, Jon understands. "Gendry? You know, he's a lord now. He'd make you a lady."

"Gendry is fierce," Arya laughs. "But no man is born that could make me a lady." She embraces Jon one last time. "Don't let me beat you to the capital. I'd hate to show you up again." They both laugh. This is good, Jon thinks. Family, not war. But she is leaving. "You're the best brother I could have asked for." And then she is gone.

_Brother, _he thinks, watching her leave. He feels warm inside. And then he notices Bran in his chair, watching from beneath a pine.

"You should come with us on the march," Jon steps closer. "With your help, this war will be over before it begins."

"It is not my place to fight in the wars of men," he shakes his head. "If you wish to serve Daenerys I will not stop you. But is that what you want, truly? What is it that Ser Alliser said…"

Jon's blood freezes cold.

_But you, Lord Snow, you'll be fighting their battles forever._

"You don't know what I want!" he shouts, suddenly angry. He came here to question, not to be questioned. Bran is as bad as the other lords. Ungrateful. Of course he wants this, the throne is Daenerys' right, Cersei must be defeated. And yet something in Bran's eyes keeps him from leaving.

"If you insist on fighting this war, Jon, there's something you have to know. I know who your father is."

"I already know who my father is! The same as yours!"

"No, Jon. My father was a great man, but you are far more than a nobleman's bastard."

"What do you mean," icy daggers freeze in Jon's chest as his hands clench the sides of the chair, staring into Bran's eyes. "Who were my parents?"

"You are the greatest secret in the Seven Kingdoms, Jon. The outcome of a lie that launched so much misery and destruction. Your mother was my aunt, Lyanna Stark. Your father, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen." Jon drops to his knees, as if a bolt has pierced his brain.

"Your true name is Aemon Targaryen. You are the heir to the Iron Throne."

* * *

_Special Guest Star: Michael Sheen as Roderick Harlaw_


	25. Kingsgrave

**Winterfell**

The three new members of the Queensguard rise, white cloaks draped over black-and-red armor – Black Spot, a fierce Unsullied, wielding a morningstar; Bors, a dim-witted and savage but truly loyal warrior of Skagos; and Ser Osgood Grafton, a knight of the Vale who had pledged his sword despite kis kingdom's neutrality. All had distinguished themselves of valor and honor in the Battle for the Dawn.

They bow before taking their place at attention, guarding the Lord's Table at the head of the great hall. With much of their armies already departed to White Harbor in the east and Bear Island in the West, King Jon Snow and Queen Daenerys Targaryen hold court. There is still work to do before they can move south.

Jon sits uncomfortable, glancing nervously at Daenerys beside him. Ever since the night in the godswood, he has slept little and his mind has thought of little else. Could what Bran have said be true? It has to be, he knows his brother's powers. But what can that mean? For him? And for the woman he loves…

"King Jon!" Daenerys' voice snaps him back to attention. He turns back to see Munda standing before them, Tormund's surviving daughter. For a moment, his words catch in his throat, remembering his old friend and wishing he could have said farewell one last time.

"Lady Munda, your father served me well. He was a man of loyalty and valor. I wish I could have bestowed such honors upon him while he lived. But you have proved you carry his finest virtues. With the extinction of the Umber line, I bequeath to you the lands and titles of Last Hearth, as the first member of House Giantsbane."

Munda is clearly shocked and humbled by the declaration. Jon smiles as she stammers out thanks. There is more left to do. Bear Island passes to Alysanne Mormont and Morgan Liddle. A new Captain of the Guards is chosen, to replace brave Pod. This is good work, he thinks. If only this was all a king need do.

And then the court is over. And the march must begin. Daenerys kisses him on the cheek as she leaves to ready the dragons. And Jon is left alone with his thoughts and his brother's words flaying his brain. The name of an old man he had loved. A name now Bran says is his own.

_Aemon Targaryen. Aemon Targaryen. Heir to the Throne_

* * *

**Castlery Rock**

The Dragon Queen's small counsel stands assembled around the jeweled war table, examining the map. It feels so strange, Varys thinks, to return to planning war so soon after such a nightmarish ordeal. The Long Night already seems so much like a dream, if not for the many dead they have buried and mourned. And yet the wheel turns on.

"The time to strike is now!" Lord Crakehall roars. The addition of flames to the boar of his sigil is not unnoticed. He and his whole household have converted to follow the Lord of Light. His burning axe had cut down many wights in the War for the Dawn.

"Undoubtedly," Lord Damion Lannister, Hand of the Queen. "Queen Daenerys marches South. We must be ready to meet her to take the capital. Brax's armies control the roads and passes, but their armies will be unprepared."

"Perhaps we ought to wait," Varys dissents. Breanna Lantell, Mistress of Coin, nods with him. "We are still recovering. It would tax the people too far to return to war. And we do not yet know the nature of the loyalist defenses."

"That is true," Damion looks down to the map, where amethyst unicorns, emerald peacocks and onyx badgers lurk in the hills. "Lord Varys, all here know your reputation. Do you wish to serve your queen?"

"Of course, my lord."

"Then you will be escorted to the Western Hills. Through whatever deceits befit you, find their leaders and learn their secrets. Be our eyes and ears. And when we know the nature of their defenses, we shall strike them down."

* * *

**Skyreach**

Atop the mountain fortress, in Lord Fowler's chambers, Ser Gerold "Darkstar" Dayne waits impatiently with his aunt, Lady Allyria. At his side hangs _Dawn_, their family's legendary great-sword. A caged falcon watches the brooding knight with a hunter's eyes.

"Where is the old man?" he grumbles.

"Old men learn patience," Allyria chides him. "You would do well to learn some yourself." But it is at that moment that Lord Franklyn Fowler steps through the door, cloaked in a silver half-cape over a pale blue woolen doublet, a colorful, long-beaked bee-eater perched on his shoulder. He calmly returns the bird to a bronze cage before greeting his guests.

"Ser Gerold, Lady Allyria, welcome to Skyreach. I hope you found your travels peaceful, given the circumstances."

"Thank the Seven the sun has returned," Allyria bows courteously, but Darkstar remains unmoved. ""We come to seek your men and your passage."

"I am blessed by your presence, my lady," Franklyn smiles, lighting a small fire beneath a kettle of tea. "But under whose authority do you demand my armies? The Pass has enjoyed many years of peace, ever since Robert's Rebellion claimed my father, wife and brothers. You would have me send the fathers and brothers of my people to battle. For whom would you have them die?"

"For Prince Anders Yronwood, Lord Paramount of Dorne," Darkstar insists.

"House Martell rules Dorne. And I have yet to hear of the death of Princess Arianne."

"Princess Arianne engaged in treason against the Queen and was deemed unworthy by the Seven in trial by combat. I slew her champion myself. Would you follow your treachery, if you are truly so concerned for peace?"

"Either option you present will mean war. I must only choose for whom I am fighting. And House Yronwood has never been a friend to my family. " He looks to Lady Allyria. "Do you speak for House Dayne, my lady, or only for this usurper?"

Angered, Darkstar stands, hand on the hilt of his legendary sword. "Have you ever seen Dawn, my lord?"

"I have, long ago, when it was wielded by Ser Arthur Dayne, the last Sword of the Morning. Do you now claim that title, Ser Gerold?"

"No!" Darkstar draws _Dawn _in anger, the glistening white blade sparkling in the light. Allyria shrieks along with Franklyn's birds, the tea kettle whistle blows shrilly and guards come rushing in. But the man does not attack. "I am so much more than that." He sheathes the sword. "Join me, or the night will fall again upon your people."

"So I see," Franklyn nods calmly, pouring a cup of tea for his guests as his guards relax. "We will march on, to Kingsgrave."

* * *

**The Prince's Pass**

A band of outriders, bearing the banners of Dayne and Yronwood, ride far ahead of Darkstar's army to declare their approach to House Manwoody of Kingsgrave. But as they near the castle, they find a merchant and a small girl blocking their path with a cart.

"Make way!" their leader shouts, but the cart does not move. Instead, the two traders approach – Garin and Elia Sand, unrecognized by the patrol.

"Good sers, please, if I may only spare a moment of your time," Garin bows deeply. "We have fine wares here, just what weary travelers like yourself would long for."

"We long for nothing but to be on our way," the leader leaps down, a huge man brandishing a heavy warhammer. "Ser Archibald Yronwood, nephew to Prince Anders. I have business at Kingsgrave."

"Ah, but you are so dusty, ser," Elia says without looking up from the ground, gesturing to the cart. "Surely you would wear finer clothes to go before Lord Manwoody."

"Armor is all the kit a knight needs," Archibald pushes her away.

"And even less in bed, I wager, less your steel poke your lover where she wants not to be poked." Garin wraps his arm around the knight, his gold tooth glistening as he grins. "But I heard you say Prince Anders. Has something befallen the Princess Arianne? I pray pardon the ignorance of a simple merchant, I have been in these valleys so long…"

"The Martell brat was a traitor," Archibald growls. "She fled to hide in these very mountains, we hear."

"These very mountains?" Garin backs away, looking about in feigned nervousness. "And what, perchance, would happen if you found her?"

"Then I'd bring her head to Prince Anders myself!" At that, the big man moves to push the cart out of the way. But he never gets the chance. Ser Rolland Storm emerges from beneath the fabrics, axe in hand, and slays the knight with a single blow. In an instant, Garin and Elia turn on the other three shocked riders.

The fight is over quickly and, as Rolland cleans the blood from his axe, Princess Arianne emerges in black robes, her Vulture's crown upon her head.

"Princess," Rolland kneels. "The Darkstar and his armies cannot be far behind."

"Then it is good we have acquired new horses." Elia eagerly helps her climb atop the finest mount. "But I am not a princess anymore, Rolland. I am a queen."

* * *

**White Harbor**

Sansa waits outside the bedchambers of Lord Wyman Manderly, within the walls of his island keep. The fat old lord had never recovered from his plunge into the icy waters of the White Knife, when the undead dragon had attacked. She can hear weeping inside. And all her thoughts dwell upon that day when she had wished death upon this man. For all his faults, he had given up so much to stay loyal to Winterfell. And now he is dying.

The door creaks open and slowly the members of House Manderly step out. Ser Wilys stops by her, his huge bulk crammed into dark-blue mourning clothes, his drooping mustache more unkempt than usual.

"My father wishes to see you, Lady Stark."

She is surprised at that, but does not let it show, placing a comforting hand on Wylis' shoulder as the big knight takes her seat. She slips silently into the chamber. Beneath a heavy wool blanket, decorated with mermen and leviathans, Lord Wyman's vast stomach rises and lowers slowly with each labored breath. Despite his girth, the old lord's face is gaunt, and he squints to see her even in the bright candlelight.

"Lady Sansa… How like your mother you look." It is clear each word is a struggle. "Thank you for staying. I only wish I could repay you… for everything." He begins to cough horrendously and Sansa rushes to fetch him water. He guzzles it down, but most of it splashes on his cheeks and pillow.

"Do not trouble yourself, my lord, I hold nothing against you."

"You should!" he coughs, the water turned to dark spittle. "I failed you, deceived you and caused untold suffering. All for my damned pride. Marlon was right."

"No, no," Sansa remains haunted by her past decisions. Let the man die unknowing, she thinks. But no, he must know the truth. "Before the wedding, my lord, you should know. I sent Littlefinger to kill you."

"Good!" he laughs, a laugh that hurts but makes him smile all the same. Sansa steps back, confused. "Traitors cannot be abided, all the more in a time of war. And yet if Baelish had been captured, his reputation would place the blame all on him, not you. A wise decision. Oh, how wrong I was about you…" Weakly, he holds out his hand. Reluctantly, Sansa takes it, her small hand disappearing within his meaty fingers.

"When you came back, I saw you as weak, a pretty little bird of the summer, of the south, with no place in Winterfell. And in my arrogance, I thought to exploit you. But I want you to know, Mycah had naught to do with it. He's a good man. He will serve you well, however you would have him." Another burst of coughing and he pulls her nearer. "You are a true wolf of the North, Sansa Stark. Winter has come, and we will need you more than ever. I only wish… I only wish I could live to serve you. But I pledge to you my men, my boats, my gold and my family. Take them, and lead us to spring."

With a final shudder, his thick fingers loosen and fall back to the blanket. His head settles back down into his pillow, his lungs expelling the salty breath of the sea. And so passes Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed.

* * *

**Highgarden**

Even in winter, the ancient seat of House Tyrell smells like spring. This is the first thought on Missandei's mind as the white walls of the castle come into view. This must be the most beautiful building in the world, she thinks. But marring the picture is the massive maze of encamped armies surrounding the fortress – the armies of Oldtown, mixed with every other corner of the Reach. Their banners, Missandei does not know, but Lady Alyssane explains them each as they pass.

According to legend, Highgarden was built by Garth the Greenhand, who taught man to farm. All the great houses of the Reach trace their ancestry back to his children. And now they have all come to press their claim on his castle – Redwyne, by Gilbert of the Vines; Bulwer, by Bors the Breaker; Beesbury, by Ellyn Eversweet; Oakheart by John the Oak; Crane by Rose of Red Lake; and, most formidable of all, Florent, by Florys the Fox.

But for now, Highgarden is ruled by one man, its castellan - Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Their party finds him in the Lord's Hall, in the Lord's seat. A hard-featured man, Missandei thinks, ill-suited to the soft green-and-silver garb he has chosen for this counsel.

"The Lady Alysanne Ambrose, Arthur Hightower, heir to Oldtown, and Lady Missandei of Naath!" Ser Argilac presents them. Bronn looks the new guests up and down.

"More seekers for this damned chair, aye?" he chuckles. "I ain't never heard of Naath before. Though if all their women are as lovely as you, my lady, perhaps I should become better acquainted with it."

"No, Ser Bronn, we are only here to help you settle out the matter of succession," Alysanne curtsies. "Bring the claimants before us, and we shall weigh their claims against precedent as an outside party. House Hightower has no need of Highgarden."

The door opens behind them. Missandei's heart stops at the voice she hears next.

"Oh, I don't know about that, dear sister…" Turning, they see the new arrivals, flanked by guards bearing a quartered banner of the Hightower tower and Florent fox: Ser Gunthor Hightower and his new wife, the widow of his late father: Rhea Florent. "I think this castle suits me quite well, don't you?"

* * *

**Horn Hill**

In her small chambers, Sarella Sand sits hunched over a pile of books, reading by faint candlelight. Far away from the Citadel, she no longer needs to disguise her name or gender, but after so many years, she still prefers the green shirt and breeches of Alleras the acolyte.

She has spent her time here poring over Marwyn's texts, trying to make sense of what the murdered archmaester had been planning. The tomes of magic and ancient history, she understands. He had used them to reforge the Hightower's Valyrian sword, to disguise the canals that connected the Honeywine to the Mander, allowing the Oldtown Army to reach Highgarden during the Night of the Dead. But she cannot begin to fathom why he kept these ancient genealogies and the private journals of the old septon of Skyreach.

There were sections here that were written in code. She had spent weeks now trying to unlock them. Why would a low-leveled septon see the need to encrypt his personal journal? But now, through blurred and tired eyes, four exchanged letters form a word, and then another, and another. And as line after line, page after page falls into place, Sarella realizes why Marwyn kept these books, what he had been killed to keep hidden. Something that will change everything…

* * *

**The Silence**

The great ship rocks calmly over slight waves, a welcome respite from the storms of the past months. Clear seas and clear skies make for a fine night to study the stars. Qyburn has presented a new far-eye, freshly claimed from the Citadel, to teach Alys the wonders of the night sky. The little bird would sooner practice knife tricks than memorize constellations, but even her eyes widen in awe beneath the endless expanse of the heavens.

Calm weather only sours the mood of King Euron Greyjoy, however, as he stalks away below deck, intent to get drunk on Nightshade and sleep the night away. But, reaching his quarters, he senses another's presence.

"Moqorro, by the gods, if you are lurking again I swear I'll throw ye' overboard, Red God be damned!" But as his lantern sparks to life he sees someone very different, lying on his bed, beneath a striped zebra pelt, lips already blue from Nightshade – Lady Leyla Hightower.

"That's not a blanket," he grumbles, pulling the pelt away, and realizes that his guest is wearing nothing beneath it. The lamplight glistens off of her olive skin, her plump body sprawled out across the bed he had stolen from a prince of the Summer Isles.

"I was cold in my chambers," she purrs, alluringly. "I thought perhaps, my king, we may share some warmth on this winter sea..."

For a moment, Euron pauses. The woman is twice the size of his own queen, he thinks. But Cersei had pulled out his teeth and bid him stay put like a dog. And she could not abide Nightshade, nor could most women Euron had met, nor men, for that matter. Yet this Hightower woman had drained half a bottle already.

Part out of spite for Cersei, part out of sheer boredom and part out of an unmistakable, enticing curiosity, he begins to remove his clothes and slides onto the bed, his rough hands slowly starting to massage her round body. The zebra pelt lies discarded on the floor. He knows better ways to keep warm.

* * *

**White Harbor**

Everyone in the North knows of the Manderlys' great appetites, Sansa thinks, but it seems that grief makes them grow even greater. She sits at their table in the Great Hall. Lord Wyman lies in the Sept, the grievers have paid their respect, and now the funeral dinner has begun in earnest. And it has lasted on and on and on.

Ser Marlan, even more morose than usual, picks at his food, but the rest of his family seems to be intent on eating the whole of the feast themselves. Sansa almost feels guilty, thinking of the cold winter that has only just begun, but she cannot begrudge the mourners this comfort tonight. She can, however, begrudge her own stomach, which now feels painfully full.

The eastern armies dispatched from Winterfell arrived in time for the funeral. Arya sits with the newly dubbed Baratheons, seeming more at home than she ever had with Sansa. Then there is Davos, Brienne, and the leaders of the Vale knights - Ser Albar Royce and Ser Wallace Waynwood, awaiting their return home. She knows she is meant to go with them.

And then there is Mycah. Ser Mycah now, knighted by Lord Wyman on his deathbed. She has been reluctant to speak to him since his return. When they had parted, neither had expected to see the other again. Now, here he was a hero, and passing a seemingly never-ending stream of lemon-cakes in her direction.

Unwilling to broker conversation with him or to eat another lemon-cake at the risk of bursting her corset, she excuses herself from the table and steps outside. She wonders the halls, trying to find fresh air, for Newcastle is a maze of passages. Rounding a corner, she finally finds an open window and, framed in its rectangle of light, Wynafryd Manderly, still in her mourning dress, nibbling on a purloined fruit pie.

"Lady Stark, I've been meaning to speak to you. Would you care for some pie?" Stifling a hiccup, Sansa declines. "Ah, well, more for me then." Wynafryd takes a large bite, red jelly smearing across her face, a chunk of berry dropping onto her chest.

"I wish to travel south with you, when you leave." This could not surprise Sansa more.

"I have not yet decided if I will go."

"You king brother commands it. You will sail soon enough. And I wish to be with you."

"Even if I am to leave, White Harbor has peace. To the south is war."

"Tywin Dondarrion is to the south," Wynafryd's voice drops to a whisper as Sansa remembers the tale of their arranged marriage. "My grandfather, may the Stranger guide his soul, promised to make me heir to the North and the East. My sister could have had the West. And he threw it all away for the sake of your family. My father and Wylla can wither away, happy in the North, all they want. But I want my husband. I want my kingdom. Would you deny me that?"

Sansa looks away, her spine stiffening at such disloyal talk. But she cannot help but hear something familiar in the young woman's voice. A longing she once knew all too well. And a strength she wished she had known back then.

"Perhaps," she allows. "But I surely doubt your lord father will approve."

"Oh, I don't know," Wynafryd grins slyly, placing her hands over her stomach. "Once the truth of it all comes out, he may be more willing to be rid of me…"

* * *

**Horn Hill**

In the Horned Hall, Sam attempts to quiet the assembled Marcher Lords, to little success. His mother, his sister and Gilly are at his side, but their bannermen yell back in forth, ignorant of his stammering attempts at assertion.

"Silence!" He turns to see Mallora Hightower glowering in the corner, in pale grey robes that almost blend into the castle walls. "Lord Tarly wishes to speak!"

"Lord Tarly is dead!" Lord Titus Peake retorts as the other lords and ladies quiet. A brash man of five-and-thirty, with sharp black hair and a sharper chin, Lord Peake is the dominant force in the room. His desires to reclaim his house's lost glory are a secret to no one. His nephew, Ser Perceon, has been one of Talla Tarly's most pernicious suitors.

He continues. "As is his heir, may the Stranger guide their souls. Samwell Tarly rejected his lands and titles to join the Night's Watch, or has my memory so soon failed me?"

"The Wall has fallen, or have you forgotten the dead men who so recently stormed our gates?" Mallora snipes back, without moving from the shadows. "The Night's Watch died with it, as did the vows of its sworn brothers."

"Such a matter ought to be decided by the High Septon or the queen herself, not an Oldtown witch," Ser Bors Varner barks from the back of the room. But at last, Lady Melessa has had enough and stands.

"We shall have no more bickering!" Sam's mother declares, calmly and peaceably, but with strength to bring order to the riotous room. "The realm is in turmoil. The Reach is in turmoil. You are sworn to House Tarly. Sam speaks of the same mind as me and Lady Talla."

When no one else offers a challenge, Sam at last can speak. "All Houses of the Reach with a claim to Highgarden have been summoned. We have no need of another castle, but Lady Talla will travel there to represent us."

"I will escort her myself, if I may have the honor," Lord Peake bows. Sam glances nervously at his family, but Melessa nods approval.

"Then you have my thanks, Lord Peake. But I will require Ser Percy's services myself."

The lord is not happy at that, Sam notes. But he knows he will do nothing offhand at Highgarden if his heir is not with him.

"Very well." The lord of Starpike's eye twitches angrily. "But what is your own plan, Lord Samwell?" He spits out the title with disdain.

"I will march through the pass to Kingsgrave," Sam declares to surprised murmurs from the crowd. "The Dornish armies are massing behind this Darkstar of House Dayne. I will ensure that he poses no threat to our lands and, if not, how we may assist him in defending against the Targaryen invaders."

This seems to placate the lords, and soon the meeting is over. Sam bids farewell to Talla as she leaves to pack her things. He thanks his mother, and turns to thank Mallora, but the strange woman is already gone. Instead, Sarella stands waiting.

"I heard your plan, Tarly. It's a good one. That Peake is up to no good, though. They never are. But it's good that you are headed to Dorne," she extends the old septon's journals to Sam. It takes him a moment to recognize them.

"Did you solve the code?"

"Yes. We will have quite the fascinating story to share at this parlay."

* * *

**Winterfell**

The clamor of the army preparing to depart can be heard even within the fortress walls, all the way here in the war room, where Jon finds Bran with Ghost curled up by his feet, examining the discarded markers.

"Would you not come to see us off?" he asks.

"I knew you would find me here." Bran doesn't look up.

"I've been to see Theon. They say he will walk again soon enough, but until then, you'll need a new guardian."

"Yes, I suppose a cripple would be of little help to guard a cripple."

"I've entrusted your care to Obara Sand." Jon waits for some signal of thanks or a fond farewell. But Bran only spins the markers over and over in his hands. He turns to leave.

Finally, Bran speaks. "Just little pieces of wood. But each one represents so many lives... It can be easy to forget that. Especially for kings, I think."

"I have not forgotten my people, if that's what you suggest." Jon's sadness is quickly replaced by indignation. "Would you have the kingdoms suffer under two mad tyrants, when the throne is Daenerys' by right?"

"But it isn't, is it?"

"Even if that's true, I don't want it! Whoever fathered me, I was raised by the same man as you. Ned Stark taught me honor and justice. Stay behind and do what you will, but that is what I seek!" Jon storms out of the room to answer the sound of the warhorns. Ghost whimpers as he leaves, but he does not turn back. There is no place for direwolves in the south. And he has a dragon now. But as he leaves, he cannot shake the final words of Alliser Thorne.

_You'll be fighting their battles forever._

* * *

**The Red Keep**

The dinner in the Great Hall is festive, but you could not tell it by the look on the queen's face. Cersei looks ever more miserable and ill by the day, made all the more alarming by the fullness of her pregnancy. She is flanked at each side by Melisandre and Arthur Waters. Each their own breed of monster, Genna Lannister thinks.

She looks to Tyrion, dressed in motley before the lords and ladies, a fool in red-and-gold. He looks perhaps more miserable than his sister, but his watchful eyes have paid their fruit. The witch's weakness is in her hands now, Genna knows, and just in time. But alas it means little to Tyrion.

"Dance, Imp!" young Arthur shouts from his seat. "Dance for the queen!" When Tyrion does not move, Arthur signals to Boros and Preston. The mindless guards lurch forwards and, terror in his eyes, Tyrion Lannister begins to dance a spiteful jig, hopping from leg to leg, making the bells on his cap ring. And as they ring, his eyes turn from fear to hatred. If a mind alone could kill, Genna thinks as the crowd laughs, they would all be dead.

* * *

**Kingsgrave**

At the heart of the Prince's Pass, where the valleys from Dorne and the Reach meet, lies a great canyon, made labyrinthine by a maze of rocky pillars, plateaus and outcroppings. Atop these rock formations, whittled away by an ancient river and millennia of wind, sits Kingsgrave. Not one keep, but dozens of towers and strongholds tied together by bridges of stone or rope, a whole world high above the heads of all those who seek passage through their domain.

It was here a band of rogues and bandits fashioned themselves as House Mangoody, Kings of the Red Mountains, amassing great power and wealth through centuries of war. They had not worn a crown since Princess Nymeria conquered Dorne, but their ferocity and pride have never diminished.

Atop the largest of the plateaus sits the main castle, built from the same red rock as the mountains. Now, before the main keep, lined with archers and scorpions, waits the western army of Dorne. At the head, Darkstar, Lord Fowler and Lady Allyria looks up to the great iron-skulled gates. Lord Dagos Manwoody looks back down at him, a short, broad-shouldered bald man in black and gold tunic. His archers stand by, arrows notched. Beneath their black pointed helmets, their cracked war paint can be seen, fashioning each face into a skull.

"In the name of Queen Cersei, First of Her Name, I command you, let us pass!" Darkstar calls out. But he gets no response from the stoic lord. "Where is Ser Archibald Yronwood?"

"There is no man by that name here!" Dagos shouts back down. For the first time, he notices the shrouded woman beside the lord. "Have you misplaced one of your knights, Darkstar? Perhaps I may loan you one of my own?"

"Nonsense! I sent him here to ensure our passage. And yet I find your gates lowered and your arrows drawn. What is the meaning of this?"

"In whose name did you claim to march, ser?"

"Queen Cersei Lannister, the one true queen."

"For you and the rest of the kingdoms, perhaps, but I know of another queen. A Dornish queen."

Darkstar laughs. "There is no queen in Dorne!"

"But there is!" The shrouded woman speaks, and he recognizes the voice at once. Her cloak slips away and Arianne Martell steps forward in an elaborate yellow, red and black battle dress. Atop her head is a crown, and beneath it a silver vulture mask covers the scarred half of her face.

"Men of Dorne!" she shouts, "Listen to me! For millennia, our people lived free. We did not kneel to the Conqueror, we shot his queen from the sky and survived the dragon's wrath! When we joined to the Iron Throne, we signed a pact to the Targaryens. And they are defeated. Today, we are faced with a choice. Return to submission with this false knight or rise up under the wings of the vulture and remain Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken!"

At the sound of the Martell words, the army begins to cheer. Darkstar whirls about to see Lord Fowler and his daughters leading the chant.

"Unbowed! Unbent! Unbroken!"

His Yronwood guards raise their arms and are immediately cut down by arrows. Cursing Kingsgrave, cursing the Fowlers, cursing Arianne and above all cursing himself for not killing her in Sunspear, he seizes Lady Allyria and takes to his horse. Lord Fowler draws his crossbow, but cannot get a clear shot.

"You can still end this, Gerold," he says calmly. "Join us and you may yet earn that sword at your side. Flee and you will die a coward."

"You fools," Darkstar spits at the old lord. "When the Lannisters feast on your corpses, who will be the vulture then?" With that, he flicks his reigns and rides off into the mountains. Already the wheels of his mind turn. He will have revenge.

* * *

**The Tower of the Hand**

The lady Melisandre stares into her fireplace. For so long, R'Hllor had been silent to her. Perhaps, she thought, a punishment for backing Stannis. But she had been so sure. For some time she had cursed her god for misleading her and then forsaking her, but there must be some reason, she thinks. After all, the Lord of Light had granted her the power to show the truth to the queen and defend the capital from the wights.

Now, if the Northmen were to believed, the Night King was dead, their eternal enemy vanquished. It must be true what they say in Volantis. This Daenerys Targaryen must surely be Azor Ahai. Now, all Melisandre of Asshai needed was to wait, and the savior she had chased for so long would come to her.

Something stirs in the flames, a fraction of a visions, a dragon with three heads. Could it be so? Could the silence finally be broken? And then she hears the clanking of steel behind her. Turning, she sees the Imp standing in the shadows. And with him, Genna Lannister and Lord Commander Balon Swann, morningstar in hand.

"I did not hear my guards announce you," she glares, dismissively.

"We did not come by their way," Genna smiles. "Did not your god warn you of our coming?" Melisandre's eyes darken as Ser Balon steps forward, the sweat of fear running down his brow to his square jaw.

"Melisandre of Asshai, you are under arrest for conspiracy against the realm and coercion of the Queen."

"The queen will never consent to my arrest!" Melisandre protests.

"We know." Genna smiles. At that, Balon lunges forward, swinging. A single blow from his morningstar shatters the table by her. She gestures to the fireplace and the flames roar forth. Balon jumps back, but she is cornered. The fire is quickly burning out of control, spreading across the chamber and up to the roof. She can hear shouts from outside.

Seizing the distraction, she runs through the fire untouched, but in her flight, overlooks Tyrion, who slashes at her ankle with a dagger. She drops to the ground and the dwarf is upon her, fire catching at the fringes of his fool's motley. But daggers are nothing to her, and she throws him aside, the strength of R'Hllor within her.

But as she rises, something is wrong. She grasps at her neck. The amulet is gone. She looks back to see the Imp holding it in his hands. He tosses it into the flame as her beauty and youth escape her, her body sagging, bones becoming brittle and skin drooping. And then the dagger in the back. And this time, oh, how it stings.

Genna Lannister stabs again and again, to take no chances. But Melisandre knew from the first blow, it's over. Through grey, clouded eyes, she looks a last time at Genna and laughs.

"You think you can save her? Your beloved queen? The battle is already lost. She will die in your arms, your realm crumbling around you, turned to ash in your mouth, fuel for a summer that never ends."

And then, laughing, her legs give out and she falls backwards onto the fire. She feels the light begin to consume her, to fill her as the flames consume the tower itself. Soon she will see her Lord's face she thinks. They all will soon. All these fools, just more embers to rise into the night.

* * *

_Guest Star Clifton Collins Jr. as Franklyn Fowler_


	26. The Kraken's Daughter

**Ten Towers**

The Tower of Feasts is full to its brim of every living Harlaw, it seems, along with a wide range of their closest allies. The chatter is so loud, Yara can barely hear herself think. Lord Rodrik Harlaw, however, remains crouched over a book, barely looking up. Yara surveys the hall. Some of those gathered here she recognizes. Others are strangers. Of her uncles' bannermen, only the Myres were absent. That had been no mistake. "Pinchface Jon" Myre had been one of Euron's earliest backers.

She pays special attention to the haggard old man, sitting quiet and alone in the back of the room. Tarle the Thrice-Drowned, they called him, a priest of the Drowned God, the most successful and renowned, save for her uncle Aeron.

"Quiet! Quiet!" Hotho Harlaw shouts from his family's table, but little heed is paid to the hunch-backed man. From across the room, Boremund Harlaw stands from his family's table

"Silence!" Boremund bellows. "You heard the man! Let Lord Harlaw speak!"

Worried her uncle has not paid attention, Yara turns to jar him from his reading, but he is already closing his book, tucking away his Myrish lens and standing.

"Firstly, I would like to thank you all for blessing the towers with your presence tonight, my friends. We have emerged from the dark horrors of night into the light of the sun once more," the little man smiles, his trim grey beard twitching. After a moment for cheers and applause, his expression turns grim. "But now the Iron Islands face a grave reality. Our king, a kinslayer, a madman and a blasphemer has abandoned us to take all power onto himself! We stand in crisis. We must ask ourselves – What will we do about it?"

"A kingsmoot!" Hotho shouts, and this time every man hears him.

"We cannot just name a new king," Lord Stonetree protests. "Euron was chosen by rights. So long as he lives, he rules!"

"Euron's crown was granted by the Drowned God," Rodrick declares, calmly, as if a maester lecturing children. "But he has forsaken that right. Hotho can attest to this, as can my niece. What the Drowned God gives he can take away. Is that not so, Tarle?"

All eyes turn to the back of the room. Yara stares intently, watching the old man as he slowly raises his head from his meager plate, as if only now recognizing the conversation.

"If these accusations are true, they are grave indeed." The priest's words creak like a rusty gate. "When the sun died, I saw despair. I stood on the shores for days, praying, humbling myself before the Drowned God. I did not know why he had forsaken us. But I held faith, and the day was born again. We have been given a chance to repent. If the folly of our king's godlessness could bring such terror, I shudder at the thought of what more he could bring upon us. I will go with you to Pyke. I will summon the priests. We must make this right."

Solemn affirmation echoes throughout the room. And Yara smiles. Could Euron truly have blotted out the sun? It doesn't matter. The judgement has fallen from the Thrice-Drowned's lips. Praise be.

* * *

**The Red Keep**

"Bring me Arthur Waters!" Queen Cersei rages at Ser Henrik Mooton, the Queensguard with the unlucky duty to inform her that the Tower of the Hand had burned down in the night and that Melisandre of Asshai was presumed dead in its ashes.

The knight marches back across the drawbridge, white cloak flowing behind him, past Lord Commander Balon Swann, who watches him go, nervously. After last night, he had thoroughly checked every inch of his own cloak to ensure it had not been singed or scorched as he, the Imp and Lady Genna had fled the burning tower.

Balon's brain still wrestles with guilt. The Red Woman had been dangerous, no doubt, a threat to the queen, her expected heir and the whole realm. Yet it still felt a grievous dishonor to be party to the murder of his queen's confidant. As Ser Henrik returns with young Arthur Waters, still in his bedclothes, Balon dashes such thoughts from his mind. He must have a clear brain to protect the realm in such trying times.

Arthur is presented to the queen on the walk overlooking the moat of Maeogr's holdfast. Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Ilyn Payne, freshly dressed in Queensguard white, are with her. They rarely leave Cersei's side these days.

"Your grace, what is it you require of me?" he bows, his robe flopping clumsily over his head. The queen is not amused.

"Must you truly ask?" she points to the smoke still rising from the ashes of the Tower of the Hand, her eyes burning with a fury hotter than the fire. "Your guards stood watch over the tower! And yet now it has burned to the ground, with my priestess inside it! And you stand there in your bedclothes!"

"What would you have me do? The red woman was known for her fiery magic, it is most likely a spell burnt out of control. Regardless, I am investigating every possibility…"

"No." Cersei slaps him. "That's not good enough. I am surrounded by enemies, even within these walls. I cannot suffer failure. And you are one of many."

"What do you mean?" Arthur begins to back away, but Ser Ilyn blocks his path.

"Tell me, who among your little birds is most prepared to lead?" the queen asks.

"Rodge of the Hill, perhaps," he stammers. "Or Tom Blackbottom."

"I see." She nods. "Ser Gregor, we are done here."

In a moment, all of Arthur Waters' pretension falls away and he is only what he is – a boy, eyes suddenly wide with terror as the Mountain's huge hands lift him from the ground.

"Boros! Preston!" he calls, but his mindless guards are not here. There is only the Mountain. And the queen. Without hesitation, the undead Queensguard hurls him over the edge, his horrid final scream only stopped by the spikes below. Cersei does not bother to look at the body, walking away, across the moat to Ser Balon.

"Take me to the laboratories. I have arrangements to make."

* * *

**White Harbor – The Wolf's Den**

Ser Marlon Manderly sits in the yards of the Wolf's Den, the ancient castle that now serves as White Harbor's prison. These crumbling walls belong to him now. A fresh snow graces the ground, the pristine white muddied by his daughter Melody and her cousin Wylla, as they play with the guards' daughters. Some days Melody still asked about her twin. He still knows naught what to tell her. Better to let the septas give the girl answers while he weeps again for his dead son. Whatever gods had cursed his line knew that he had no answers to give her.

It was still a shock that old Wyman had died before him. He'd been near ten years older, for certain, but still…

_Another life gone, and I am left to bear witness._

"Father!" He hears the sound of Mycah's voice and turns to see his heir approaching, looking every inch the knight in his mail and green surcoat. In his hands he carries the greatsword _Leviathan_.

"What do you mean, lugging that great thing about in the snow?"

"It is your blade, father. It belongs in the Wolf's Den."

"And what have I ever done with it?" Marlon pushes the blade back to his son, his attention returning to the children at play. "In my hands, Leviathan was only ever bloodied by common criminals. It has slain a White Walker now. It would be ill-fit as a headsman's blade."

"What would you do with it?" Mycah is confused.

"My son, my son…" Marlon smiles, sadly. "It is yours now. You have won your place with it in the songs, and it has carried you back to me alive. You will leave it by your side. We have won the city peace for, a time. Let us see if we can keep it."

Rising, Marlon rolls a ball of heavy snow. With a light throw, it explodes against young Wylla's dyed green hair. She shrieks, and rushes with her cousin to their own snow defenses. Laughing, Marlon gives chase. His time of war is done.

* * *

**White Harbor - Newcastle **

Sansa lies awake in her bed, unable to sleep. She gingerly massages her feet, bandages still tightly wrapped where she had lost three toes to frostbite that knight on the White Tooth. There is wine and lemoncakes on her dais, but it has done no good.

Ser Wylis, no, Lord Wylis now, had not taken the news well. The maesters could not confirm Wynafryd's claims of pregnancy, but her declarations were enough to despoil her father's sense of honor. Wylis had demanded she take moon tea to end it, but it was then Sansa had intervened. She remained his princess, and he had left it at that, gone off to entertain guests from the Iron Bank. Word of White Harbor's dragon corpse has already reached them, and now they flocked like vultures.

Sansa would have to go now, she knew. For certain, she could send Wynafryd south with an escort. But how craven would she look then? No, it was decided. Her time of peace is finished as soon as it has begun.

She hears Brienne at guard by her door, blocking someone… Mycah.

"Brienne, let him in!" she calls. The door slides open and Mycah trods softly in. He has traded his mail for a soft turquoise doublet, embroidered with a merman.

"I hope I have not disturbed you, princess…"

"No, have a seat," Sansa beckons. "Have some wine, if you like."

He takes the seat, but no wine. "I hear you have decided to sail with the Vale knights on the morn, with my cousin as well."

"You hear true."

"It is a brave and noble thing," he smiles, timidly.

"I do not feel brave," Sansa confesses, nibbling on a lemoncake for comfort. But she finds herself taking more comfort from his eyes. Blue-green, like the sea.

"You are in the company of knights!" His voice is encouraging. "They have all sworn their vows, just as I have. No harm will befall you in the Eyrie."

"Knights and their valor and their love," Sansa sighs. "I believed all that, long ago. But I've learned new things. I've been told that love is poison, that there are no true knights."

"You know that isn't true! Brienne is the truest knight I know!" Mycah protests.

"Brienne is no knight."

"Were you to make her one this very knight, no one would stand in your way."

"No," she shakes her head sadly. "Would that it were so simple. It's not Brienne. It's not me, or Lord Wylis or you. It's our world. It's so broken. We survived the wrath of gods, defeated an army of the dead, but it never stops. People just keep hating, scheming, warring for more. Why can't we just have peace?"

She looks out the window at the moon, hanging low over the sea. "They all called me a little bird. I wish I was. I wish I could fly away to the moon and never return. See how peaceful it looks, all alone out there."

"My grace, if you willed it, I would build a ladder to the heavens and take you there myself, I swear."

Sansa laughs. But when she turns back from the moon, she sees no jest in his face. She can see the moon reflected in those sea-green eyes. Slowly, she leans forward until their faces are inches apart. She can feel his breath, warm and salty. Just for an instant, her lips touch his. And for the first time, she does not feel fear at the touch. This is what a kiss should feel like, she thinks.

"You're a good man, Ser Mycah." She clasps his hand in hers and slowly, her head drifts to her pillow. She floats off to sleep, but her hand never lets go. Nor does Mycah, even as his own eyes tremor shut, still sitting upright beside her bed. Together, they dream of a morning far away. But not so far as before.

* * *

**Moat Cailin**

"No," Daenerys Targaryn insists, jabbing a finger at the frightened Manderly steward who had delivered the missive from White Harbor. "No man shall touch Viserion. I will not let him be chopped into pieces and shipped across the sea for gold!"

They had been camped two days at this ancient ruin of a fort when word of the Iron Bank's offer had arrived. They would back her claim for the throne. But they wanted the body of Viserion, which the Manderly fools had dragged to their city without telling her. Her Viserion, her son, on display in a market, ready to be sold. Never.

"Your grace," Lord Glover interjects, "It's like they will take Cersei's side otherwise. The worth of a dragon is enough to wage a war over. If they could claim all three…"

"No!" she slams both fists on the table. "The usurpers will never slay my dragons. They will all burn and die before us if they will not yield to their rightful queen! And the fools of the Bank will burn as well, if they seek to claim Viserion!"

The Northerners all turn to Jon now – Glover, Cerwyn, Stout, Ryswell, Sigorn the Wilding, even Lady Stane of Skagos and Myles Wull. At this counsel, only Grey Worm, Zatarra and Jorah answer to her.

"The queen has spoken, and I am of her mind," Jon insists, though he is unwilling to lock eyes with her. "Enough talk of this, there are larger matters at hand."

"We hold Moat Cailin, strong as ever," one-armed Harwood Stout reports. "But it is not our end of the passage that is the problem. The loyalists have fortified the south of the pass. We outnumber them, but they have the high-ground, the battlements and scorpions."

Daenerys shudders to recall what those machines had done to her dragons on the Roseroad. "Is there no other way through the neck?"

"Let us find a way," Sigorn barks, with Lady Stane nodding agreement. "A little muck is nothing to fear!"

"You'd all be dead within a day," Stout shakes his head. "If we want to bypass the Kingsroad, we will need the Crannogmen. We will need Howland Reed."

"Then find him!" Daenerys commands. That ends the meeting. She waits as the others leave and night falls, hoping to speak with Jon. But he slips away without notice. Soon she is alone with Eres, the eastern warrior now dressed in dark armor befitting a guard of the Fiery Hand. The woman accompanies her out of the counsel's tent.

_How much further south must we go before we escape this damned cold? _she thinks, wrapping her white fur coat tighter around her as she walks against the wind towards her quarters in the Gatehouse Tower. Even her Red companion seems to feel the chill. It is clear she and Zatarra fear these swamps, though they will nary admit it. At last, the reach the tower's entrance.

"You may leave me be now," she tells Eres.

"You are not safe here, your grace. These swamps run deep with the power of the old gods, and these Northmen are not to be trusted. Cannot you see it in their eyes?"

"I see soldiers who will do the bidding of Jon Snow."

"And do you trust Jon Snow, my grace?"

The question takes Daenerys aback. "With my life." At that, she closes the door in Eres' face and treads quietly up the steps to the bedchamber shared by her and Jon. He already lies naked beneath the fur blankets. She should ask him now, she thinks. Their betrothal cannot come soon enough. That much she can indeed see in the Northmen's eyes.

"Awake, my wolf," she whispers in his ear, but he only turns over.

"The day is long, I tire of talking," his muffled voice rises from beneath the covers.

"Then we will not talk." She silently slips out of her heavy coats and into the bed, pressing her body against his. But he is cold. "Come now, you're frigid," she laughs, hands reaching around his chest and thighs, lips at his ear. But he does not respond, in body or spirit.

After a moment of silence, she rolls away, left to stare at the stones above her head. Something is wrong. And it is not only these swamps.

* * *

**Blackhaven **

It would be yet some time before his bannermen arrived in the council chambers, but Lord Harlan Dondarrion was already on his way. Some lords had a fashion of making their attendants wait for them. Such vanity had no root in Harlan.

Behind him follow his son Tywin, in matching, if ill-fitted black garb, and his ward, Lord Edric Dayne, in silver-and-lilac silk. Further back still follows Ser Balerion Horpe, Harlon's sworn sword, a massive man, outsized in Westeros only by the Mountain, his tattered white robes flowing in an unfelt wind.

At last they have reached the door to the chamber. Balerion steps ahead swiftly to open it for his lord and young Edric. But before Tywin can enter, Harlan stops him.

"No, boy, you will wait here."

"But, the meeting…"

"Is for my lords and commanders," Harlan insists, firmly.

"I sat at the Lord's Table," Tywin's assertion falters under his father's withering glare.

"To dine with me is one thing, boy. To plan war is quite another. After hearing of the debacle at White Harbor, it is clear you have much to learn before you can join my counsel." Harlan turns away. Tywin wants to shout that he can never learn out here alone in the hallway, but he says nothing. Ser Balerion closes the door in his face.

The sound of clattering metal comes approaching down the hall. Rounding the corner, wooden sword and dining platter in hand, a pot for a helm, charges his brother, Barristan, a boy of nine, his sister Elenei running close behind.

"Ty, come play with us!" Barristan swats at his brother's shins. "I'm King Argilac! You can be the Gardner King!"

"I'm sure you can be someone else, if you don't want to die," Elenei smirks.

"No, I can't play, I have important things to do, Tywin insists. "Lord's things." His siblings offer no question, and off they run, as quickly as they came. He feels like falling to the floor, slouched against the wall. He feels like crying. But he cannot. And so he stands straight, eyes front, awaiting his father's return.

* * *

**The Red Mountains**

Ser Gerold Dayne sits upon a broken red rock in a hidden mountain valley, polishing the white blade of Dawn, the sword, legend holds, forged from the heart of a fallen star and passed down by the greatest warriors of House Dayne. Beside him, his aunt, Lady Allyria Dayne, toils over a fledgling fire.

"It should only be a few days ride to Blackhaven, by my readings," Darkstar mutters.

"To Blackhaven?" Allyria is surprised. "Lord Beric is passed without a doubt, if the Northmen are to be believed. A dead man has little need for his betrothed."

"Not Beric, perhaps. But now Harlan is Lord of Blackhaven and all the Stormlands, and Warden of the East as well."

"What of him?"

"He still wants you. As he has since the day his brother took your hand, I suppose."

"All this I know. Yet is not Lady Penelope still living?" Harlan may be mad for her, she knew, but the lord was far too stern in honor to ever break his vows.

"I do not question his intent. But I know what men want.""What do you want from all this, Gerold? What is your plan in all this?"

The knight does not look away from his reflection in _Dawn_. "I will take their heads, all of them. Fowler, Mangoody, every last traitor down to Arianne and her cock-loving guardian. Once I have bested them, I will reclaim my army, march them to King's Landing and lay the villains' skulls at Cersei's feet!" His violet eyes burn. "Then I will take up Dawn and don my white cloak and do what Arthur Dayne never could – End the line of Eddard Stark."

"You will never be Ser Arthur," Allyria shakes her head. At that, Darkstar lashes out with his closed, armored fist, catching Allyria above her eye. It immediately begins to swell and bleed.

"Start the damn fire before we both freeze to death!" he snaps. And then, as if nothing has happened, his attention returns to _Dawn_. As the first star of the evening catches in its reflection, he smiles.

* * *

**Pyke**

Erik Ironmaker sits atop the Seastone Chair. Whether the massive old man is awake or asleep is hard to say. At his left, his fabled war-hammer is presented by his grandson, Thormor. At his right, Aeron Damphair stands. And as the party from Harlaw arrives, it is clear to Yara who has the real power here.

With her are Rodrick, Hotho, Lord Volmark, Lord Stonetree and the Thrice-Drowned, with two dozen men-at-arms in tow. They had faced little resistance, and it had been dealt with swiftly enough.

"Anvil-Breaker!" Yara shouts and throws her axe, burying it in the stone at the foot of the throne. Old Erik startles awake. "We would have words with you."

"We know why you have come, traitor," Aeorn hisses, salty spittle flying from his mouth. "There will be no kingsmoot, the Islands already have a king."

"A false king!" Tarle steps forward to face his fellow priest. "A blasphemous king who has betrayed the sea for a red god of fire! I will not sit idly by while he brings down curses upon our heads." He pushes Aeron aside to face Erik directly. "Will you, Ironmaker?"

Erik coughs horrendously as the room grows silent, all eyes on him.

"I, er, um…. I will summon the lords to Old Wyk. We shall decide this matter before the Drowned God!"

* * *

**White Harbor**

As Brienne of Tarth rides through the city, down to the docks, she feels the weight of two swords upon her back, two swords re-forged from_ Ice_, the ancient blade of House Stark. One is hers_, Oathkeeper_, a gift from Jaime Lannister. The other was his own, _Widow's Wail_. Now Jaime's bones are marched back to the Rock, but his sword remains with her.

Pod would deserve such a blade, she thinks, but he is dead, too. She had found his torn body beneath a pile of a dozen wights at the gates of Winterfell. True and brave to the last. And the Starks had a new blade now, wielded by their king – _Longclaw_. She knows naught what to do with _Widow's Wail_. It only rests heavy on her person, a reminder of her final oath to the man she loved. And now, as she follows her lady Sansa aboard the _Frosted Fury_, she takes another step closer to having to choose.

He made me vow, she remembers, holding his hand as he slipped away into the night. I vowed to save his child. To save his heir means to save Cersei...

She snaps out of her thoughts as her horse reaches the gangplank to board. Sansa is waiting, with Mycah and Wynafryd Manderly. And gingerly she spurs ahead, out onto the water, carrying her on to destiny.

* * *

**King's Landing**

The city is alive with festivities, for the king has returned. Qyburn noted it odd that the queen had not come to meet The Silence when it docked. But the king had spurned the Red Keep regardless. Instead, Euron had led Leyla Hightower straight into his camp in the ruins of the Sept. The bizarre circus of priests, mummers, singers and followers had only grown since they left, and now the priest Moqorro, with a flourish of mystic fire takes to the great stage beneath the Maiden's ruined statue.

As he boasts in grandiose terms of the victory the great Euron Greyjoy had won against the dead in Oldtown, Qyburn waits in the wings with the king and his new lady. He has no time for this, he must see the queen, but first…

"But mine own humble words could not do this part justice," an actor's voice can be heard. "No, please, today we have been truly graced. Today in this new tale, the role of our king will be played by King Euron himself!"

Euron bursts onto the stage to a mad rush of cheers. He wears his finest black and gold garb, a flowing red cape behind him, a ruby embedded in his eye-patch and the steel crown of the lion-headed kraken atop his tangled black hair. Leyla, dressed equally fabulously, turns to leave, but Qyburn seizes her plump arm and turns her back to him.

"My lady, I beg you not forget, there are eyes everywhere in this city." He looks to her neck. The king's own jewels, he recognizes, and hurriedly pulls them off the confused woman. "There is naught that happens here I do not see or hear. Do not give me cause to distrust you. Or I cannot protect you from the queen."

With that, he disappears into the crowd, leaving behind Leyla, now slightly less glamoured, to join the crowd pressing to see King Euron recount his latest daring deeds.

* * *

**The Western Hills**

Varys leads his donkey down a narrow path, along a steep ravine in the heart of the mountains, famous for their great mines and now the hideaway of the last Lannister loyalists. Ahead he knows is the entrance to Deep Den, the great subterranean keep of House Liddle, which guards the Goldroad's passage through this place.

The eunuch is dressed in tattered robes of a poor traveler, his donkey laid with a meager load of vegetables, but hopefully enough to win passage into the mines. As he nears the entrance, he sees the long line of smallfolk, eager to take shelter in the mines from the war outside, from the dragon's wroth. From the wicked spider, too, Varys thinks.

He feels the eyes of guards, bearing the markings of purple Brax unicorns, green Serret peacocks, but mostly yellow Liddle badgers. But if they note him, they say nothing. And just like that, Varys and his donkey disappear into the throng clamoring down, down into the earth. What does it mean for them if I succeed, he thinks? Will they descend into these depths to find safe haven, only to find their hell instead? He shudders, and presses on.

* * *

**Moat Cailin**

Jon finds Daenerys on a balcony overlooking the ruins of the ancient keep. She does not turn to see him approach.

"Good morning, my queen," he says quietly. "They have prepared us a fine meal in the solar."

"No," Daenerys answers, plainly, without looking to him. "First we must talk."

"We can talk over biscuits," Jon shivers from the cold. "What need you speak of?"

"Our betrothal," she says, and Jon's heart drops. "Do not think I do not know where the Northern armies hold loyalty. Or the loyalties of your brother and sisters. Who do you think Sansa plans to bring the Vale to follow? They do not love me. They do not march for me. They wait upon your word alone. And a divided army cannot stand."

"I don't know if that is necessary," Jon tries to wrap his arm around her, but no warmth is returned. "I follow you. Our armies march as one."

"No, they do not," At last she turns to him. There are dark circles around her eyes, marked with tears. "Your armies see mine own as invaders. They tremble at my name and cheer at yours. We cannot retake my throne like this. Say the word, and we will put an end to it."

But Jon says nothing.

"Was not this always the plan? Ever since I left Dragonstone, my thoughts were of you. You swore to me you were the same!" her voice cracks. "You said we were in love! And I know I love you, but if you do not…" She turns, looking out over the sea of tent encampments. "I will find another."

"I do…" Jon stammers. "I do love you, but…"

"But what?" She slaps him, and immediately regrets it. "I'm so sorry!"

"I'm not who you think I am," Jon whispers as Daenerys reaches to gently touch his cheek, stinging red.

"What do you mean?"

"Bran told me, before we left," Just to retell it feels like tearing my soul apart. "All my life, I wondered who my mother was. But now… Bran says it was all a lie, all of it, from the very beginning. He says he saw when I was born, he saw through the trees. He saw who my parents were. My mother was Lyanna Stark. My father was Rhaegar Targaryen."

Daenerys' jaw drops. She slowly backs away. "And you believe him?"

"He has powers beyond my understanding. But he would not lie to me."

"Wouldn't he? Can you not see it, Bran? His powers come from the same place as the White Walkers! He has distrusted me from the moment we met!"

"No. It's true. I know Bran."

"Do you? Do you really? You knew a boy named Brandon Stark, who fell from a window and still slept when you left for the Wall! He is not that boy anymore, he would be the first to tell you, himself." Jon cannot answer. He knows that is true, but cannot speak it to words. "If this is true, that means you are before me in line to the throne."

"I don't want the throne."

"Then marry me, now, and none of this will matter! You say you love me!"

"You're my aunt!" Jon shouts, then retreats within the chambers, fearing a guard below may hear. Daenerys follows.

"For centuries the Targaryens married siblings, to keep our blood pure! If you are my nephew, that is nothing to me!"

Jon will not look at her. "I spent my whole life thinking I was Ned Stark's son. I no longer know who I am."

"You are a man who loves me and the man that I love. That is all that matters." He does not answer. "Who else knows. Is there anyone alive who could confirm Bran's tale?"

"Howland Reed."

"Then let us pray even more that this Reed can be found."

* * *

**Old Wyk**

Atop Nagga's hill, Yara stands alongside Rodrik and Tarle Thrice-Drowned before the assembled lords of the islands and the priests of the Drowned God. She nervously eyes them. The last time she stood here, they had betrayed her inheritance to name Euron king. That cannot happen again, she tells herself. She will not survive if it does.

"It was not so long ago that we stood here and named Euron Greyjoy our king," Tarle is preaching. "The Drowned God blessed him, and he led us to victory and the Iron Throne! But he has forgotten who gave him his claim! Who gifted him his power! He has forsaken the ways of the sea, and follows the god of fire and light and summer. Those who grasp that hand will burn and blister, their victories will turn to ash in their lungs and they will drown, not in the sea but in smoke!"

"We have already seen the wrath his heresy brought upon us, the night without end! The dead that rose! By our god's grace, we have been given a second chance. A chance to make this right before Euron's fires consume us all! We must choose a new king!"

"And who would you have us choose, Thrice-Drowned?" Erik Ironmaker bellows.

"Yara Greyjoy!" Now Rodrick speaks. "King Balon's heir! She has always spoken for the sake of our people. She will never abandon us to chase a mainland throne, she is Ironborn, through and through. She bears the allegiance of the dragons! She will not fail us!"

"What?" Aeron shouts. "A woman cannot sit the Seastone Chair! All your reading has driven you mad, Harlaw!" Many of the lords shout agreement, but Tarle silences them all.

"Better a woman than a heretic!" he shouts back. "Yara Greyjoy is more Ironborn than you, or any coward that follows the follies of the Crow's Eye! Do not think he can protect you from the wrath of the Drowned God!"

"Aye! Give us Yara!" Lord Drumm shouts, and Hotho begins to rally the other lords in chanting her name. "Yara! Yara!" Farwynd, Goodbrother, Orkwood, even Jon Myre. Finally, Rodrick turns to Erik Ironmaker himself.

"Two of your grandsons died in Oldtown, following Euron. How many more sons must die for his madness?"

Erik only dwells on the Reader's words for a moment before adding his voice to the chorus shouting for Yara. But where is Aeron? It is then she feels him behind her, bony but strong hands seizing her arm, dragging her to the edge of the water.

"You want Yara? You want a woman to lead you?" he shouts. "Let the Drowned God decide!" With that, he pushes her out and over, but her hands are quicker than his. Catching the priest's tunic, she pulls him down beneath the waves with her.

And then the salt water is rushing into her, down her throat, her nose, her ears. The water is cold, colder than anything else she has felt before. And dark, too dark. Aeron is beneath her, or above her, as she twists and turns. His skeletal hands pull her down, but no, there are too many, too many hands to be his alone. She is falling down, down. A silent scream only lets more bitter, cold water in as she reaches desperately to where she knows light should be, if she could only see it.

And then she can see, but what she sees she knows cannot be. The tentacles of the kraken write around her, each tentacle bearing a screaming head, the heads that had called her name moments before. She turns, but beneath her the horror is worse. Aeron floats, dead, eels streaming from his mouth, his face eaten away to naught but a skeleton. And behind him an army, only faces in the dark, fish-headed men with razor-teeth. She turns and swims desperately away, but something is wrong. She is going deeper. She turns, but now behind her stands Euron. He is the heart of the kraken, the shadowy tentacles spiraling out from him. Dark wings sprout from his back and he breathes fire. But it is all lies, she tells herself and kicks, harder and harder, up and up.

And then she breaks the surface. Aeron is gone. There is only Tarle, waiting with a driftwood crown, and Rodrick, a great smile upon his face, and the crowd of her people, chanting her name.


	27. Ours Is The Fury

**Gulltown**

The sun is rising in the East as Sansa Stark, yawning, steps onto the deck of the Frosted Fury. Brienne is already wide awake and at attention, alongside Ser Albar Royce and Ser Mycah Manderly, watching as the walls of Gulltown first come into view. From them fly the banners of House Grafton and, above them, the red dragon of House Targaryen. The sight chills Sansa. Though perhaps it is only the breeze across the harbor.

Lord Gerold Grafton himself is already waiting at the dock as the Manderly ships return what remains of the knights who followed Littlefinger north. With him stand a fabulous retinue of lords, ladies and the upper class of the city.

But, as she leads her own entourage down the ramp, it is not the living men she sees, but the dead. Burned corpses hang from the cities' gates, as if a warning to all who care to enter.

"Welcome, Lady Stark," Lord Grafton bows. "We praise the lord for your safe passage. The night is dark and full of terrors, but you have brought our knights safely home."

"I only wish they were all still breathing, my lord," Sansa replies, unable to look away from the burnt men. They have also caught the attention of Ser Albar.

"Has Lord Arryn already declared for Queen Daenerys during our passage?" he asks.

"No," Gerold shakes his head. "But my family has always been loyal to the true rulers of Westeros. We give thanks that the Targaryens have returned."

"Thanks to the Red God, I see."

"Indeed. The true god delivered us from the Night of the Dead. None can deny his power," he looks to the corpses. "Though some have tried."

His words send another shiver down Sansa's spine. For certain it is not the wind.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Grafton, but I fear we cannot stay. We must press on to the Gates of the Moon. I have a meeting to keep with my cousin."

"Of course," Gerold smiles, helping Sansa astride a fine silver horse. "I myself will ensure your protection. Having the might of Gulltown at your side will surely help Lord Arryn see the light."

_Yes,_ Sansa thinks as they ride into the city. _But what light will he be seeing?_

* * *

**The Sea Wolf**

The small Manderly vessel rocks on a rough sea as it nears the Island of Tarth and Shipbreaker Bay beyond. It's white plastered sides rise and dip above and below the blue waters. Davos Seaworth stands at the wheel, smiling. It is good to command a ship once again. Better still one traveling on such a prized mission – to carry the last Baratheons to take their rightful place in the Stormlands.

But for now, Gendry and Mya, in their rough workers' clothes, are indistinguishable from any other common crew, and a poor one at that. The duo, ill-matched with the towering Sandor Clegane and tiny Arya Stark, have little skill at sailing, and are making a true mess of the mainsail.

"Watch your heads, you louts!" Mya shouts as a slipped knot sends the spar spiraling free. Gendry jumps back, tripping over the edge and into the choppy water. The spar swings further, over Arya's head as she rushes to his aid before slamming into Sandor's chest. The huge man grunts, but stops the spar without blinking.

"Bloody kids," he grumbles, tying it back into place. "If only the stormlords could see you now, fumbling over a sailboat."

"As if you know any better," Mya laughs. "Just yesterday we had to stop you from cutting the whole damn mast in half when it wouldn't hold right."

As the two others bicker, Arya pulls a gasping, shivering Gendry back onto deck.

Through chattering teeth, the lad grins. "Thank you, princess."

Arya slaps him for that. "Don't make me throw you back over!"

As his crew banters back and forth, Davos can only smile. For the first time in so long, he is happy. The kingdom is in good hands. And he is heading home.

* * *

**Tarth**

Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle for good reason, Arya thinks, looking at the glistening blue water that surrounds the island, vibrant even in winter. And even with most of its trees having shed their leaves, the land itself is beautiful too – soaring mountains run down its spin, with the land rising up to meet them through forests, meadows and valleys.

They are come to dock at Morne, so named for the ancient, long-abandoned castle that sits high in the woods above the port, which sits around the bottom of a beautiful waterfall, flowing down from the ruins, as if tears for forgotten kings and queens.

As The Sea Wolf sails into the docks, Arya breathes in the fresh sea air. She feels Gendry's hands behind her, wrapping around her torso.

"Does it feel like home?" she asks as he rests his head atop hers. She still feels strange, being touched like this. But strange is normal to her. And this is a good strange.

"Is this Storm's End?" he asks.

"Oh, gods," Sandor laughs. "No, you bloody idiot, this is a fucking fishing village. Do you see a castle? You really are your father's son, head's as thick as a castle wall…"

Sandor awkwardly swings himself over and onto the dock, his wounded leg still hobbling him. Mya leaps heavily after him and together they pull the ship to safety. As they disembark, Arya scans the docks, looking for some grand party ready to greet them. But all she sees are the fishermen and traders, going about their daily tasks.

"We are here in secret, remember," Davos whispers. "The Evenstar has not yet played his hand, else the king would sure have burned this village to the ground." He heaves a barrel of salted fish into her arms. "Now, be a good mate and get our cargo to the traders."

Soon the cargo is unloaded and their small party finds themselves listless in the market, unsure of what to do next. Sandor, impatient, stalks off to buy a chicken, grumbling about the prices inflated by winter. But Davos seems to be waiting. Finally, a tall, thin beggar appears out of the crowd, his whole form covered in a dark blue cloak.

"How fare the seas, ser?" he asks Davos. Arya eyes the man suspiciously. His rags are old and torn, but something is amiss. His smell. He smells… clean.

"Clean sailing all the way from White Harbor, friend," Davos answers. "But I fear we bring the storms with us."

At that, the beggar pulls down his hood, suddenly revealing a band of gold, inset with lapis lazuli, placed atop a short crop of blonde hair. There is no doubt in Arya's mind - the Evenstar himself!

Gendry and Mya, realizing who they are meeting, gasp and drop to one knee. Davos only smiles knowingly, offering a short bow.

"My lords, no!" says Lord Selwyn. "Rise, rise! I ought to kneel before you." The two Baratheons awkwardly stand, unsure of how to respond. "Welcome to Tarth," Selwyn smiles, deepening the aged wrinkles around his mouth. "Tonight, we will dine in Evenfall Hall. And tomorrow, you will be home."

* * *

**Blackhaven**

Tywin Dondarrion stands alone in the castle's audience chambers, the imposing, polished sandstone seat of his father sitting empty, but watching him as if it had eyes all its own. He paces the floor, hearing his own feet echo off the stone.

His father's bannermen had all gone. Dark wings had brought word from the Pass, half the Dornish army had defied the Iron Throne. And from Storms End, where the lords who had not answered their Warden's summons were massing. The drums of war are sounding. Even Lord Harlan is gone, and taken young Edric Dayne with him.

_Edric is the son he wants_, Tywin thinks, _not me_.

He hears new footsteps now, approaching the chamber doors. Panicking, he rushes to the Lord's seat, sliding uncomfortably into it. As the doors swing open, he tries to remember how Edric would look sitting here. _How father would look_.

His uncle's bastard, Ormund Storm, presents the arrivals – A knight in silver armor with a lilac cape, his hair silver, with a streak of black. The woman older, but beautiful, and familiar. Both, he notes as they draw nearer, have violet eyes. They must be Daynes. Edric's family.

"Where is your father, boy?" the knight demands.

Tywin rushes to respond. "Gone to The Cocoon, to meet with Lord Horpe, ser."

"I was to meet him here! When will he return?"

"Soon, I hope," Tywin stutters. "M…may I help?"

"I have no need of you, boy." The knight points to Ormund. "Show me to my chambers, bastard. I expect the finest you can offer." Ormund reluctantly leads the angry man away, leaving the woman behind.

"I apologize for Ser Gerold," she says. "Do you remember me, Tywin? I'm Allyria, you're late uncle's betrothed. How is your mother?"

"Ill, I'm afraid," Tywin ansers easier now. "But she will recover, as she has before."

"Good," Allyria walks nearer, nervously. "Do you know what your father has planned to meet with Ser Gerold?"

"No," Tywin sighs, "Though I wish I did."

"Well, that makes the both of us."

* * *

**The Cocoon**

Carved into the very side of one of the highest of mountain peaks, the ancient keep of House Horpe is far from any traveled path or town. An isolated outcropping of wood and stone, it seems nearly dead at the edge of the precipice, faded white banners bearing deathshead moths waving in the wind. And one could be forgiven for mistaking its inhabitants for ghosts, in their long, tattered white robes. Horpes do not wear armor, they say, for steel makes a warrior lazy and vain. And every Horpe is a warrior, born and bred.

Over a dozen young specters now move in the courtyard, practicing disciplined fighting under the supervision of a broad, fierce old woman, Elenei Horpe, and a Bravosi instructor. Edric Dayne watches from the edge of the cobbled courtyard, where pale blue mountain flowers creep up through the cracks.

As young Edric is occupied outside, Lord Harlan Dondarrion stands in the audience chambers of Lord Maegor Horpe. The room has three walls. Where the fourth should be stands a wide upon view into the mountains and a sheer, deadly plummet if one were to take one wrong step. The wrinkled, twisted ancient man sits in a simple wooden chair. Harlan is unsure if his clouded eyes can even see him, but Maegor still speaks with cutting ferocity.

"My family has refused to join these foolish years of war," he declares. "Why should we now? One son serves you, another serves Selwyn Tarth, a daughter with the Peakes, a grandson to the Tarlys, and so on and so on. I will not have them break their vows."

"Your first vow is to the Iron Throne and to the Lord of the Stormlands and Warden of the East," Harlan calmly reiterates. "And I stand before you now, in need of your services."

"Nay, you stand beside me! You fear an old man will throw you down?"

"Is that what you want?" Harlan steps forward, indignant now, between Maegor and the expanse of nothingness. The fierce mountain wind tears at his black leather cape. "Do not question my honor, Maegor. Half my bannermen marshal their armies at Summerhall as we speak. The other half have defied my call. I have come here for your answer, and I will not leave until I have it. Whose side are you on?"

For a long moment, Maegor's foggy eyes glare and it is clear he can see all too well. His anger seems palpable, but Harlan stands his ground, giving back strength for strength. At last, the stern façade cracks and the ancient man begins to laugh.

"You I like," he wheezes. "Your brothers were trifles, but you, I can see the storm in you. Tell me what you want, Lord Harlan Dondarrion. Whose head would you have me bring down death's heavy wings upon?"

* * *

**The Prince's Pass**

Already, Sam missed Gilly. They had been married the night before he left on the march. There was no weirwood at Horn Hill, so they had the wedding in the great woods surrounding Horn Hill. Mallora Hightower, well-versed in the old ways of the First Men, had performed the ceremony. The more pious followers of the Seven had grumbled, but none dared speak out in the presence of his mother, or the Mad Maid.

Now Sam was on the road yet again. On the warpath, now that was a strange thought. Madness, his mind scolds him in his father's voice. He is no general. He is a craven. But his father's words are burnt away and scattered on the wind, along with his brother. And now he marched to earn them justice.

Now more than ever he regretted sending _Heartsbane_ away with Ser Jorah. Not that he'd know what to do with it, but it would make him feel better, surrounded by the likes of Ser Daemon Peake, Meraxes Horpe and Ser Bors Varner. His mother had handpicked personal guards but he only truly trusts Sarella Sand and Mallora. The women are in his tent now, working to light the glass candle they had stolen from the Citadel in their flight.

Sam recoils as Mallora slices across her palm and the blood trickles down onto the tip of the glass candle, running in thin lines down the grooves of the warped obsidian. And then it is alight. Sam had heard Sarella describe the experience, but nothing could have prepared him. The colors of the tent warp around him, he begins to feel dizzy, falling back into a chair.

"I told you it was beautiful, Tarly," Sarella whispers, but Sam cannot say he agrees. He looks across the tent, through the dancing light to Mallora. The candle makes her orange eyes glow, and twists the colors of the strings in her grey hair.

"What do you want to see my lord?" she asks. "Shall I find your sister?"

"No!" Sam blurts. That doesn't feel right. He knows Talla is safe. Lord Peake would never let harm befall her so long as she was free to marry Ser Percy. "Show me Kingsgrave. I want to know who I am facing."

Mallora nods, and stares deeply into the candle's glow. Sam tries to look for a sign as well, but he only sees vague shapes in the shadows, like a great black bird taking flight."

"Fascinating," Mallora muses, pulling her bony fingers through her hair. "The one the call Darkstar is gone. His armies answer a new voice now." She looks to Sarella. "Your cousin, Princess Arianne Martell. She calls herself the Vulture Queen."

"Arianne!" Sarella rushes closer to the candle, though if she can see anything, Sam cannot tell. "For whom does she march?"

"Her mind is deeply troubled," Mallora sighs. "She cannot see the way forward. But I see that when you meet face to face, all will begin to become clear."

* * *

**Highgarden **

Talla Tarly is jostled to and fro as her carriage moves too fast for her taste over the bumpy road. But at last their destination has appeared in the distance, and she thanks the gods that this, her furthest journey beyond Horn Hill, is near an end. With her ride Lord Titus Peake, and Lady Pommingham. Neither were particularly pleasant travel companions.

She glances through the thin slats of the carriage, hoping to glimpse perhaps the handsome Ser Gwayne Risley. But mostly she only ever saw Ser Daeron Horpe, with his ugly white cloak and a face that may have once been as dashing as Ser Gwayne, but was scarred, bent and overall frightening. But he was her sworn sword now, so her mother had told her.

Now she feels the carriage roll to a stop. Looking out, she sees them surrounded by a sea of tents, stretched as far as the eye can see.

"Why have we stopped?" she asks. "We're not yet to the castle."

"We have friends to meet first," Lord Peake kicks open the carriage doors, fully revealing their location. They have stopped before a huge, vibrant blue tent, above which fly the banners Hightower and Florent. Ser Daeron escorts the three inside, past many knights in full armor. Within, reclining on an orange chaise, Talla immediately recognizes her aunt, Rhea Florent, in a jeweled blue gown, beside a dashing knight with white-blonde hair.

"Talla!" Rhea smiles, beckoning her niece to embrace her, which she clumsily does. "My, how you've grown. Melessa has made quite the lady of you! Here, meet Ser Gunthor Hightower, my husband."

Talla curtsies to Gunthor, who grins pleasantly. She thought she remembered Rhea being married to a different Hightower. But perhaps she was wrong.

"Your aunt and Ser Gunthor have a proposition for you, my lady," Lord Peake says.

"Yes, my dear," Rhea smiles. "What are you here to do?"

"To speak on behalf of House Tarly, as our duty as Lord Paramounts of the Reach and Wardens of the South." Talla answers.

"Good, good," Rhea strokes her hair. "So you know what you decide in the coming weeks will be very important. So please, remember. You are a Tarly. But you are also a Florent."

* * *

**Deep Den**

"Thank you, Peevil," Varys smiles, and the small boy scurries away. Hastily, the eunuch writes down the latest piece of information he has gleaned, squinting in the dim light of the small room of sheets he had hung for himself in the bowels of the caves.

It took him back to his days in Pentos, starting over again like this, speaking to the children, passing along sweets, building his creature of a thousand eyes and ears. Here, where he was no longer Varys the spider, but Tomas the Weaver, he felt more free than he had in decades. This was the work he loved. Tucking the small scroll into the rough-hewn wool breeches that had replaced his old silk tunics, he begins to make his way up through the mountain.

The winding tunnels and caverns of Deep Den are daunting to even those born there, but a man of Varys skills had taken to them like a fish to water. He winds up, up through the shadows until he is in the maester's chambers and can see the sun again, through smoothly chiseled windows. They light as he approaches the ravens and finds his own, the pet he had smuggled in, trained to fly to and from Hawthorne Hall, where Ser Damion Lannister, Hand to the Queen, awaits.

In times of war, ravens never ceased coming and going. It was no surprise an extra bird had gone unnoticed. He sends it on its way, but as he leaves, he hears the scraping of feet outside the door. There is no other way out. Steeling himself, he swings open the door to find the maester waiting with six knights, led by Ser Steffon Swyft. All pretense is dashed away.

"Greetings, lord Varys," the rooster-haired knight glares. "It's been so long…"

* * *

**King's Landing – Qyburn's Laboratory**

Qyburn smiles as he walks back into his workspace. The wretched court clothes he had been forced into Oldtown are gone, back to the plain black tunic, marked only by the iron pin of the Hand. He carefully examines the works as his little birds, old studies continued and new ones begun. But something is wrong.

"Where is Arthur?" he asks a scruffy headed boy.

"He's… not here," the bird nervously replies. "Tom Blackbottom is in charge now."

"Tom Blackbottom? Well, where is he?" Qyburn asks again, the boy runs off. He turns to the other children. "And where is the Master of Whisperers?"

"You should try Maegor's Holdfast," he turns to the sound of the voice. Genna Lannister stands in a dark corner, next to a vat of electric hellbenders. With her is the Imp, Tyrion, dressed in fool's motley. "The last I heard he's still on the spikes."

"What do you mean?" Qyburn hisses, drawing near.

"I fear he suffered a most unlucky fall in the early morning, just before you returned," Genna answers, almost sadly. "Or at least I'm sure that's what the queen will tell you. He did such good work, too. My nephew can attest to that." Qyburn looks down at the oddly-silent Tyrion. One look at the scars around his mouth answer that question. "But his guards failed to protect the Red Woman. And our queen does not suffer failure."

"I take it that was your doing?" Qyburn snaps, mind still reeling from the news of his apprentice's death. She remains as silent as the tongueless Imp. "Don't try to lie to me. The two of you are the only ones left in this city with the nerve to think such a thing and the wits to do it."

"I promise you, the boy's death was unintended," Genna insists, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. It does little help. "Had the queen come to me first, perhaps… But the past is the past. King Euron is returned and the queen is… not well. The dragons draw nearer every day. If we want to survive, we must act swiftly and discreetly. Compose yourself. Your presence will be needed in the throne room. Our last best hope has just arrived."

* * *

**King's Landing – The Red Keep**

They are called the Golden Company. And in appearance, Tyrion thinks, they certainly do not lie. A score of the sellswords were in attendance beneath the Iron Throne, led by three of their high officers, their rank shown by the lord's ransom in gold armbands each wears.

Captain-General Harry Strickland seems an odd match to lead the men behind him. A head-and-a-half shorter than the officers behind him, even shorter than the slender young squire with blue-dyed hair that attends him, with grey hair brushed over a bald scalp, "Homeless Harry" does not seem the intimidating sort. But those tend to be the most dangerous kind, Tyrion thinks, recalling the Company's battle-cry.

_Beneath the gold, the bitter steel. _

"Queen Cersei," Strickland bows over-zealously. "The songs of your beauty are all true, I now see. And King Euron, it is an honor to meet a man of such renown." The king, Tyrion notes, seems half asleep, barely listening. "My men have found Dragonstone most satisfactory. Only give the word and we will strike upon it."

"Can you kill a dragon?" Cersei asks, icily, from atop the throne. She looks heavier with child every day now. Tyrion thinks. Perhaps the king will finally kill her once he sees its golden locks. _A shame to rob me of the pleasure. _

"To kill dragons?" Strickland dumbly repeats the question.

"Yes!" Cersei shouts back. "Yes, yes, yes! Dragons! I did not send for you, my aunt did. You may have dazzled her with your words but you are nothing to me if you cannot plant two dead dragons at my feet!"

"We have many scorpions already lining the walls, general," Qyburn interjects. "But they are only as good as a man's aim, and a truly lethal shot is one in a million."

"Scorpions," Strickland muses, rubbing his stubbly chin. And in that moment. Tyrion glimpses something truly frightening. "What are your bolts made of?"

"Iron," Qyburn answers.

"Tell me, are there still weirwood trees in the south?"

"A fair amount that I can think of."

"Good. Bring them to me, and I will bring you dead dragons. Now," he claps his hands together as if the task he has accepted is already done. "Let us celebrate. The Golden Company has returned home!" Cersei nods approval and the men in the hall cheer to applause from the court. But not from Tyrion.

His queen was coming for them all, with the armies of the North and the West. This had always been his plan. But now she had abandoned him. He will burn with all the rest now. Unless Cersei wins… He shudders. He would truly rather die.

* * *

**Kingsgrave**

At last, Arianne Martell is alone. Ever since first presenting herself as the Vulture Queen, she had been surrounded by lords and ladies and knights, all demanding to know her next plan. Prince Anders men are through the Boneway, the armies of the Northern Marches are massing at Summerhall and a great host of Reachmen march down the Prince's Pass. But she has no plan. _You have an army, girl_, she hears the voices of her uncle and father, accusingly. _What are you going to do with it?_

She rubs one hand over her silver halfmask, the other over the scars on her face. She listens to the wind blow against the red stones of her tower and traces the lines the sun cuts on the floor through the window. She had a dream to nights hence. A hunter had rode down from a great beacon in the sky and a book had opened up before her. The ink on the page had blurred together and taken the shape of a wolf with wings that breathed blue fire.

Suddenly, she hears a heavy pounding on the door she knows to be Ser Rolland. Placing the mask back on her face, she bids him enter.

"Outriders from the Tarly host, my queen," the huge, bearded knight reports. "Their leader requests a personal audience. A woman… I think."

Carefully placing her vulture mask and crown, Arianne makes the walk across the bridge from her tower to the main Skull Keep, past the glowering Mangoody guards with their painted faces. But as she enters the audience chamber, where the great stone skull-throne sits, she loses her regal composure. For there, in dark green vest and breeches, quiver on her back, her short black hair, teak skin and wry smile unmistakable – Sarella Sand.

Arianne rushes to her cousin's arms, crying tears of joy as they embrace. For a moment, they stay locked together until at last

"Garin, get us wine! What are you here for, Sarella? I've been on the run for so long, if you've sent any more missives, they are in Prince Anders' hands now."

"Don't worry about that. I've learned to keep my secrets close," Sarella taps her head and flings herself onto the skull-throne, grinning. "I see you've done well for yourself, Queen Arianne. You were just a princess when we left." She pulls her cousin in close. "And back with Garin, I see. I always thought he was one of your finer lovers."

"Garin is a loyal servant, not a suitor," Arianne chides her.

"Then you won't mind me getting my hands all over him," Sarella smirks and jumps back up as the handsome rogue returns with the demanded wine. She winks at him as she claims the bottle and leads Arianne out of the chamber, until they are alone atop another archway, looking down upon the red canyon below. She takes a long drink from the bottle and sighs happily.

"A blessing. The Tarlys have no good wine."

"The Tarlys," Arianne snaps her back to focus. "Do you march with them? Are they friends or foe?" Sarella grins enigmatically.

"That sounds like a puzzle. You do know how I love puzzles..."

Arianne snatches the bottle away, impatiently. "No more wine until I get a straight answer!"

"Samwell Tarly wants war against no one but the dragon bitch who killed his father and brother. He will gladly make peace with you so long as you don't stand in his way. But he carries far greater import."

"What do you mean?"

"Knowledge, cousin. Knowledge is the most powerful tool in the world," she wrenches the bottle back. "We have a witch with us, for one. And a glass candle. And most importantly, we have the final piece to your fathers puzzle. The answer that will give you Dorne and all Seven Kingdoms along with it." Her hand flits to the vulture mask. "Let me see what the Darkstar did to you."

"No!" Arianne's swats her away. "What do you mean? I swear, if you jest again…"

"The heir, Arianne," Sarella drops the empty bottle over the edge into the canyon below and places her hands on the queen's shoulders. "The true heir to the Iron Throne."

* * *

**Storm's End**

Arya can hear the crowd, beyond the door, as Lord Selwyn guides her, Mya and Gendry to the banquet hall. The new grey jerkin, shirt and pants, embroidered with a direwolf fits shockingly well. Tarth's tailors are truly gifted. They had crafted matched black and yellow doublets for the Baratheons as well, after Mya had brashly refused to wear the gown that had been prepared.

Arya herself had helped Gendry change into his finery. The bull-headed new lord's nerves had turned him hopeless with even the simplest garb, having been used to the simplest of clothes his whole life. Perhaps she had let her eyes stray too long on his muscles or his manhood, for she feels he is even more uncomfortable now than before.

She can feel him shaking beside her now. How a man can be so brave in battle but tremble before a crowd was strange, but a feeling Arya knew all too well. She grasps his left hand tightly, Mya already holds his right. And then Lord Selwyn swings open the doors and the roar of the crowd is deafening.

Even with only half the stormlords attending, the hall is overfull. Food has already been served. Sparse for a feast, the meal was, but Gendry had reminded Lord Selwyn that it was winter, and the new lord did not wish to feast as hunger descended upon the land. Davos said that was very wise. Arya agreed. Gendry will make a better lord than all those fools who used to cheer Joffrey, she thought. Mya only insisted they not hold back the ale.

They can scarcely get at what meal has been prepared, however, for first the lords insist upon paying their respects.

All come with gifts for the Baratheon siblings and to pledge their sword to their cause – From Lord Rogers, a dagger and necklace inlaid with amber. From Lady Maertyns, huge tapestries of the stag. Ancient Lord Penrose, barely able to walk, found the strength to deliver a ponderous tome, the annals of House Baratheon. He wet its pages with tears, begging forgiveness for failing Gendry's father and uncles and receiving an embrace from both siblings. A more humble gift came from Davos, at last reunited with his lady wife – An engraved steel bowl holding a fine assortment of onions.

But most grand of all is the gift of Lord Selwyn Tarth himself: The whole hall falls silent

As two knights haul it in: The Warhammer of King Robert, that fearsome weapon that had slain Rhaegar on the Trident. Gendry, already overwhelmed, must be nearly shoved forward by Mya. Seizing the hammer with both hands, he lifts it into the air to thunderous applause and chants of "Fury!" "Stag!" and even some of "King!"

But as Arya looks out at the guests at their tables, joyous in their celebration, her mind slips back to a different feast. Instead of stormlords, she sees the dying Freys, clutching at their throats, coughing blood, writhing in agony on the floor… all at her hand. So many dead, all her fault. She feels bile rising in the back of her throat and rushes from the hall.

In the midst of the clamor, only Sandor seems to notice. He limps after Arya into the hall, heavily and noisily, finding her cowering in a dark corner where the torches have gone out. She can hear his approach and then feel his silent presence as she pounds her fists into the walls, crying angry tears, praying for the pain to drown out the memories. She had thought it would be done. She killed the God of Death, she was trying to start her own pack, like Nymeria, but...

"It feels wrong, don't it," Sandor finally speaks, struggling to find tenderer words than normal. "Sitting in a room like that, tryin' to look like everyone else. But we're killers. We can't hide who we are from ourselves."

"You don't know what I've done, Hound," Arya snaps back.

"Oh, I've got a good idea. I heard all about what happened to House Frey. Only Walder's little wife was left. She said a girl had killed them all, a little girl from the North, with the wolfsblood in her. No one believed her. But me… I thought you were dead then, but I think part o' my brain always knew."

Slowly, Arya turns around, stepping out of the shadows to show her red eyes and bloodied knuckles.

"How do you do it? Sit like nothings wrong, after all you've done."

"You think I'm happy out there? I wanted to die, you know. I followed your brother beyond the Wall, followed Beric on his grand crusade. Because everywhere I went, every time I tried to find peace, good people died. When the sun went out, I thought it was finally over. But the light came back, and that's when I realized, I'll always be the Hound. I've gotta to live with the past. It's the only way to face the future."

Perhaps unnerved by his own sudden insight, Sandor turns and limps away back to the hall. Arya watches him go, rubbing the blood from her hands and clearing her face.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

She thought she killed her fear, but in the end, it was herself she was afraid of. Trying to numb the screams in the back of her head, she slowly takes the steps forward, back to the hall. Another night to try and live again.

* * *

**Blackhaven**

The whole Dondarrion family stands assembled in the yard, even as rain pours down from the sky. Even Lady Penelope has made it from her sickbed, the frail woman shielded with an umbrella held by her eldest daughter, the ever-grim Alysenth. Ser Gerold and Lady Allyria have joined them as well to watch the gates swing open and Lord Harlan ride in, flanked by Edric Dayne and Ser Balerion. Behind them ride a dozen grim Horpe warriors, their white cloth plastered to their bodies by the rain.

Little Barristan rushes through the mud to his father, but gets a cold reception. Harlan marches on, nodding curtly at each member of his family in turn. Edric rushes to greet his aunt. Tywin notes that the beautiful Allyria pries a smile from his father as he walks on towards shelter inside. Tywin and Darkstar hastily follow, but Harlan turns on them at the door.

"There is word from the east. The dragon queen as produced two bastards of Robert's loins and given them Storms End by decree. House Swann has sworn to them, and fell upon Prince Anders' army. They were beaten back and are besieged within Stonehelm. But I must make haste to Summerhall. The war has begun."

* * *

**Summerhall**

Under the winter sun, the once great Targaryen manor has slowly begun to reshape into a mighty keep once more. Workers toil away every hour, even as the marcher armies begin to arrive. And then, a hole in the earth opens up. The shouts summon Maester Otto, architect of the project. Deep within the hole, filtered through air and dust undisturbed for four decades, lies a pile of human bones. And beside it, a horn, polished but burnt, inscribed with ancient, arcane texts.

Otto shivers, as if a ghost has passed through him. He sends men down to claim the artifact. But he will not touch it himself. He had begged Lord Dondarrion not to disturb these ruins. And now it seems his worst fears have come to life. Or, more accurately, death.

* * *

_Special Guest Star - Donal Logue as Harry Strickland_


	28. The Crannogman

**Raventree Hall**

"Lord Brynden, tell your fool of a brother to step aside before I am forced to do something we will all regret," Lord Jonos Bracken commands. He stands at the entry to the godswood, alongside Lord Edmure Tully and a dozen men-at-arms. In their path stands Hoster Blackwood with no armor, sword brandished, his sister Bethany crouched behind them. The tall lad has no business holding that sword, Edmure thinks, a lanky mess of bones and sinew, all angles. He'd be better off at the Citadel.

"Hos, please," Brynden steps forward. A man of twenty and two, but young all the same. Edmure can tell he does not yet believe himself a lord, even with news of his father's death. "Let them pass. There's nothing you can do!"

"That tree is our home!" Hos shouts. Surprising everyone, he swings clumsily at his brother. Brynden easily sidesteps and shoves his brother to the ground, the sword dropping into frozen dirt. Bethany, shrieking, rushes at Lord Bracken, but is seized by two guards as the enter the wood.

"I always found it a queer sigil anyway," Bracken sneers at the two sullen youths. "Your name is Blackwood and this… well it's anything but."

The guards march forward, advancing on the massive, long-dead weirwood at the heart of the wood, axes in hand. The flock of ravens perched in its branches begins to shriek deafeningly as the men approach. As the axes begin to strike, they scatter. Several, seemingly possessed by righteous fury, dive down at Bracken himself. He lashes out. By the time the ravens are gone, two lie dead at his feet.

"This is an honor," Bracken kicks aside the birds, stiffened and warped in their death throes. "The wood from your tree may at last be of use in service to the crown."

But as Bracken taunts his conquered rivals, Edmure can only here the heavy THWACK THWACK of the axes, cutting deep into the trunk. The tree's face, long dead yet now it's red sap eyes glare convicting outwards, into his soul. In the he sees the eyes of his fathers, his sisters, even Robb Stark.

THWACK. THWACK.

_What have you done, Edmure? What have you done? And what will you do now?_

* * *

**Winterfell**

Obara Sand finds the prince in his chambers, already dressed. His room is simple for a lad of his stature, even his bed is a lumpy straw mattress with rough-hewn wool sheets. Brandon Stark himself looks as if he has not slept in a week.

"Have you been well?" she asks as she helps him to his wheelchair.

"In body but not mind," Bran answers, sadly. "My rest is troubled."

"Ask and I'll find you a proper bed. This is not fit for a prince."

He shakes his head. "In my time beyond the Wall, I slept on rock and dirt. When so many of my people do the same, why should I require more? It is not my bed that troubles me. A new darkness is spreading across the land. The queen is destroying the weirwoods."

"To guard against you?"

"No, I don't think that's it," Bran's voice trails off as Theon Greyjoy appears before them, hobbling along on crutches.

"Your food has been prepared," he reports.

"I'll eat later. Take me to the crypts."

Obara must lift the prince from his chair and carry him down the steps into the crypt, Theon haltingly following. The workers have not yet arrived, leaving the trio alone with the unfinished marble of the newest stues. Bran runs his hands over the rough-hewn features of his father and eldest brother.

"A poor face," Theon looks at Robb's stone head. "It doesn't do him justice."

"It will," Bran insists. "Give them time. They ought to make one for Rickon, as well, or else I fear he'll be forgotten. He did not live to have his name writ to song. He deserved better."

"Indeed," Obara agrees, though she did not know the boy. "It will be done."

"I think I will break fast now," Bran decides. "And then tour the Winter's Town. The people should see us. We may be at war, but we must offer what peace we can." With a final look at the chiseled statues, Obara turns and carries the prince away. Theon lingers a moment longer, staring mournfully at the lifeless eyes of marble. At last, he follows Obara's fading footsteps away to dine.

* * *

**The Neck**

Grey Worm pries his foot free from the half-frozen muck. This was miserable terrain, unlike any he'd ever seen. The rest of the party sits hunched around a fire, slowly roasting a lizard-lion they had chased from its burrow. The meat was tough and chewy, like everything else they found in these swamps. And they had encountered no shortage of beasts here. But not a single crannogman, much less their elusive leader, Howland Reed.

All that changes as his party begins to tear into their meal. Ever alert, Grey Worm's eyes scan the group. Suddenly, he stops, mid-bite. Standing at the edge of the campsite is a girl, is dirty brown garb, spear in hand.

"You there!" he shouts, drawing the attention of the others. "Who are you?"

Sigorn, the wildling lord of Karhold, rises to confront the girl, but with a quick flick of her small spear, she knocks the huge warrior on his back. Grey Worm rises slowly, bidding the others to stay still.

"I am Meera Reed," the girl declares. "Daughter and heir to Lord Howland. You've bungled through our lands long enough. My father will come with you on one condition. You will take him directly to Jon Snow."

* * *

**The Gates of the Moon**

Returning here is a strange feeling for Sansa Stark. When she had left, she had never wanted to return, haunted by nightmares of Aunt Lysa. But compared to what came after, the Eyrie had been paradise, and Lysa a dream. Now the Eyrie looms ominously above them in the sky, closed off for the winter, as she comes before her cousin.

Sitting atop a rune-inscribed bronze throne, Lord Robin Arryn is flanked by eight knights in sky-blue capes with winged helmets, his Order of the Winged Kinights, he called them. He is a very different boy from when she last saw him. Still frail and pale, he is near a head taller and possessed with an unfamiliar intensity. And most telling of all, he is no longer playing to the whims of his advisors. Which, as Sansa is discovering, will prove to be a problem.

"Why should I bend the knee to this dragon queen?" the boy-lord complains. "What will she offer me? Queen Cersei stole my titles from me because of you and your bastard brother!"

"My lord," Sansa protests, "Do you think Cersei will care if you side with her now? If you pledge fealty, perhaps Queen Daenerys would…"

"I do not serve Cersei!" Robin shouts and begins to shake. The maester rushes to calm him, but is pushed away. "I am lord here! This is my kingdom! Everyone thinks I'm weak, all of you, you're just waiting for me to die! But I'm not! I will not die!"

"Robin…" Sansa tries to reason with the angry lad but Lord Grafton interrupts.

"Do you think you can defy the dragons? The Eyrie itself could not stand against them! Do you wish to burn alongside your kingdom, boy?"

"Burn? Like the ones you killed in Gulltown?" Robin shrieks. "Take him away!" The winged knights close in on Grafton, obscuring the short lord behind their blue cloaks. "I wish we had a moon door here! I'd throw you from it! No one threatens me, not you, not my cousin, not a dragon!" He turns angrily to Sansa, suddenly that scared, violent boy again. "There are four queens and two kings in the land now, I hear! I have my mountains, I have my knights. You tell them if they want to speak to me, they will speak to King Robin, King of the Mountain and Vale!" And at that, the blue cloaks and steel wings enclose around her, too.

* * *

**Pyke**

Yara Greyjoy sits upon the Seastone Chair, a dritwood crown in her hair, attended by Lord Rodrick Harlaw and Tarle the Thrice-Drowned. They are prepared to host audience, for the Targaryen fleet has arrived.

The doors swing open to reveal Lord Sebaston Farman, flanked by Humfrey Hightower and Sandro Qo, the Summer Islander. She can already read the disdain on Farman's face. His family's hatred for the Ironborn is legendary.

"We should make this quick, Lady Greyjoy," he snarls, his handsome blonde features turned vicious. "I don't want to spend longer on this cursed rock than I have to."

"That's Queen Yara, or your grace, Lord Farman," Yara corrects him, grinning. "And I assure you, I wish to keep your time in my presence as brief as possible."

Humfrey laughs at that, but is silenced with a glare from Lord Clifton.

"You received that crown in turn for an alliance with Queen Daenerys Targaryen. We have come to collect on that alliance. We need more ships."

"Our fleets are depleted," Lord Harlaw explains. "We have little to spare."

"Then give us what you have. My queen's patience grows thin. She has already waited far too long to claim her birthright."

* * *

**Moat Cailin**

Daenerys Targaryen pulls her heavy fur coat tighter around her, the cold air chilling even by the fire within the counsel tent. She stifles a yawn. It's been nigh impossible to sleep since Jon's revelation. She had hoped telling Jorah would lift the burden.

"Once he's had time to adjust, I'm sure Jon will come to an understanding," he muses. "All his life he's lived a story, a story that turned out to be a lie. Once he comes to terms with who he truly is, he'll return to you, and we can put this all behind us."

"And if he does not?"

"He will not oppose you. You could wed another Northman, Lord Cerwyn, perhaps, and secure their support."

"No. If Bran told him the truth, Jon would be first in line to the throne. Even if he doesn't want it, he will be a threat. His family has no love for me. If he has to choose between us, what will he do then?"

"Don't trouble yourself on such matters, your grace," Jorah places a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Focus on the war, that's where we need you. Ned Stark and Howland Reed kept this secret for twenty years. Let it stay that way."

A commotion can be heard outside and the priestess Zatarra steps into the tent, red robes dusted by snow.

"My queen, the party has returned. They've found the crannogman."

She leads Daenerys and Jorah to the edge of the camp, where Grey Worm, Sigorn and their scouts are welcomed back. She peers through the crowd to see whom they've brought. A hard-looking girl with long brown hair, carrying a three-pronged frogspear and a short man in bronze scales with stringy brown hair, tight face and dark eyes. Eyes that immediately find Daenerys and do not look away.

"It is him," Zatarra whispers.

"Bring him to my tower," she commands. "I will speak to him at once."

* * *

**Hawthorne Hall**

The armies of the West camp beneath Targaryen banners in the wide grassy fields around the old wood-and-stone keep of House Hawthorne. Ahead, the Goldroad winds down to disappear into the Western Hills, where their enemies lurk. Within the Hall, a war counsel is in session, presided over by Lord Damion Lannister, Hand to the Queen and Lord Roland Crakehall, Master of War.

It's as fine a counsel as he could ask for, Damion thinks. Lord Merryweather and Ser Carnegie Rowan have brought their armies from the Reach to join his own men and the Unsullied and Dothraki armies left under his command. He only wishes he could still claim a dragon. But against these mountains, they would be of little use.

Before them on the table is assembled a map of Deep Den, compiled from the information relayed by Varys.

"Thanks to the spider, we know the ways in and out of Deep Den," Damion explains. "And, more importantly, their water source. Let us see how long Lord Brax's men stay loyal when their throats go dry."

"Then what of the heir?" Ser Forley Prester asks, his mind on the captive Robert Brax.

"I say we burn him!" declares Lord Crakehall's son, Tybolt, as huge and brash as his father. "Let them see what becomes of those who defy their true queen and true god!"

"No," Damion silences that notion. "Robert is yet just a boy. It would harden their hearts against us to see him burn."

"Robb Stark was scarce two years older when he started the war that killed my brother," Lord Crakehall grumbles.

"We have many prisoners that would be more fitting sacrifices," Damion ends the discussion. "Prepare to march. Let us see what the spider's web will catch us."

* * *

**Deep Den**

Varys is dragged before the loyalist lords, bound and shrouded. As the sack over his head is removed, he sees many faces, lit by torch - some familiar, others not: Ser Steffon Swyft, Lady Serrett with peacock feathers in her hair, little Lord Lydden. But he has never met the man at the head of the long stone table. In mail under a purple surcoat, a gaunt man with long curls and a spotty beard stares at him with dull brown eyes. The unicorn on his garb means he must be Flement Brax, now a lord by his brother's death in White Harbor.

"Lord Varys, the great spider," his lips part in a thin smile.

"I don't believe we've met, my lord."

"No, father never took me to the city. I never cared for the crowds. And yet now here I am, caught in your web all the same."

"We should send his head to the lions!" a large man, hunched in these cramped quarters, shouts from the back of the room.

"Not yet, uncle," Flement remains calm. "Leave us be. I would question Lord Varys myself." The other lords and ladies slowly file out, save Steffon Swyft, who lingers only to be forcibly chased out with a withering glare from the lord.

"Please, have a seat," Flement undoes Varys' bindings and sits, drinking a cold glass of water. "What do they know?"

Varys hesitates for only a moment. "Everything, my lord. The hidden entrances. The defenses. The water supply." Flement winces at that final note. "I will say, you have been a pleasurable opponent, burning your own castle so your followers would not turn on you. But you are out of plays, I am afraid. End this, spare your people more loss."

Flement looks up, sadly. "What do you know of loss, spider? I have lost a father and two brothers. I've seen my home burned at my own hand. My eldest son taken captive. My wife, with child, fallen ill within these damp caves. You cannot know loss if you have not loved. And what have you ever loved?"

"I love this kingdom, my lord," Varys declares.

"On that we can agree," Flement sighs. "So tell me, how do we keep from losing it?"

* * *

**The Gates of the Moon**

Sansa is not sure how long she has been in the cells by the time Brienne and Ser Mycah arrive to free her by the command of Lord Andar Royce.

"Princess, I beg your forgiveness on behalf of the Vale," Andar professes, running along behind her as she storms out of the cells with her escorts. "Lord Arryn is a troubled boy, I am sure by tomorrow his mood will have improved."

"What of Lord Grafton?" she asks.

"I was unable to arrange his release."

"Perhaps that is for the best. Do what you can to console my cousin and see to it the other guests from Gulltown to not cause further trouble. And I will require knowledge of these Winged Knights of his. They are a wall around him. If he is to be reasoned with, they must be restrained."

"Of course, Princess," Lord Andar bows and departs as they arrive at Sansa's chambers. She still is uncomfortable being called a princess. But Jon is a king now, perhaps soon of all seven kingdoms. She must play the part whether she feels it or not. She leaves her guards by her door.

"If those fool knights try to seize you again, I'll knock their wings clean off," Mycah vows. Sansa laughs, but she knows he and Brienne will not hesitate to war against her cousin if need be. She prays it will not come to that. Inside her chambers, she finds Wynafryd Manderly waiting, reclining in a sheer blue nightgown, gingerly eating a pomegranate.

"No luck with little lord Robin," she almost mocks.

"First he wants his titles back, then he wants to be a king," Sansa collapses onto a lounge, reaching for wine. "Our dear lord Gyles decided to prophecy doom and dragonfire, and my beloved cousin had us both thrown in the cells."

"His sons shan't be happy about that," Wynafryd muses. "A pity, they are such fine knights. Ser Lucerys is quite dashing, don't you think?"

"Then why not marry him and save us all a lot of trouble?" Sansa drains her cup.

Wynafryd looks hurt. "Because I want the heir to Blackhaven, not the second son of Gulltown. My child's father will be Lord of the Stormlands and Warden of the East."

"When Daenerys wins, Robin Arryn and Gendry Baratheon will reclaim those titles. Do you not wish for our queen's victory?" Sansa chides, half-heartedly.

"I wish for power, Sansa. The same as you. I've seen what happens to those who don't have it. I want you to teach me to play the game of thrones. You learned from the best. From Littlefinger and from Cersei."

"No!" Sansa rises and storms to the window. "I'm not like them! How can you talk like this, after everything that's happened? We faced a night without end, an army of the dead, and it's as if it never happened. Are we so quick to forget that there are bigger things than these petty squabbles?"

"All the more reason to strike," Wynafryd spits out a seed at Sansa's feet. "Even the strong are weak. Those who want power will strike with no reluctance. The game plays on, the wheel keeps spinning. And I don't plan to be crushed. Do you?"

* * *

**Queen Cersei's Chambers**

"Are you well, my queen?" Qyburn asks, pouring a steaming herbed tea to soothe her stomach. Cersei sits shadowed in a corner.

"I do not require your potions, Qyburn," she answers, barely audible.

"Your handmaids said the child was troubling you."

"Then I shall require new handmaids. I cannot suffer idle chatter."

"I will leave it here all the same, in case your mind alters," Qyburn lights a small fire beneath the kettle, but does not turn to leave. "Is there anything you do require?"

"Why are you hear?" Cersei breaks the silence. "Is it about the boy? He did good work, but he failed in what I needed most. Such a slip of the mind is suspicious, is it not? There is no one in this city I can trust."

"Your grace, our counsel is only of those who wish the best for you," Qyburn is taken aback by the outburst. "I am your Hand. I am here to advise you. We have not had a moment to speak since my return from Oldtown. Much has transpired."

"When I require your counsel, I will summon you."

"Very well. The Small Counsel will meet today. I shall keep you informed of our every move. It is best you tend first to your own health."

"No!" Cersei shouts, struggling to rise from her chair. "I will be there. I am the queen."

* * *

**Small Counsel Chamber**

For the first time since the Hand and the king's return, the counsel has assembled. New to their number are Leyla Hightower, the red priest Moqorro, and Harry Strickland of the Golden Company.

The Imp in motley performs while they wait, with the king taking great pleasure in the mutilation and humiliation of the dwarf who took his eye. The others are less amused.

"Why do we wait?" Leyla whispers to Genna.

"Queen Cersei has commanded we conduct no business until she is present."

As if on cue, Cersei enters the room, nearly hobbling now under the weight of her pregnancy. She collapses into her chair and, taking in her surroundings, immediately becomes agitated.

"Who are you?" she jabs a finger at Leyla.

"Leyla Hightower, your grace, our Mistress of Coin," Qyburn answers.

"I did not send for a Mistress of Coin!" Cersei snaps.

"The king said…"

"I did not send for her!"

"We had an open seat," Euron interjects. "I felt it would display our gratitude to Oldtown for their loyalty." He can barely hide his lusty glances back to Leyla. "And after the tragic passing of young Arthur, I invited my trusted counsellor…"

"You did not have my leave!"

"Please, your grace," Qyburn tries to calm her. "Do not exert yourself, the child…"

"Out, out!" Cersei pushes him away. "All of you! If my counsel does not answer to me, I will find ones who will!"

"This meeting is adjorned," Qyburn sighs, beckoning the others to leave. Euron storms off, Leyla following quickly behind. The others exit more slowly. Genna steals a few final glances back at her fuming niece, and notices Tyrion lagging back, with murderous eyes. Seizing him by his motley, she drags him out of the chambers and sends him on his way. She finds Qyburn and Harry Strickland waiting.

"Is she… always like this?" Strickland asks.

"The queen's babe is near at hand," Qyburn asserts. "She is consumed with grief for her brother and concern for the realm. Have patience, and she will return to order soon enough." It is unclear is this answer satisfies the Captain-General, but he asks no more questions.

"Are your shipments of weirwood proving satisfactory?" Genna asks him. He nods. "Have you conferred with Ser Henry on battle strategy?"

"Never fear, my lady," Strickland bows, kissing Genna's hand with a wink. "When we strike, you will know, for the victory bells will be ringing." With that, he turns to leave.

"I think the Captain-General fancies you, my lady," Qyburn chuckles.

"Aye. But I despise flattery. Have your birds keep an eye on him. And my nephew as well. I fear he may soon outlive his usefulness."

"Of course," Qyburn bows. "And, if you would, summon the king to my laboratory. There is an arrival he will want to see."

* * *

**Qyburn's Laboratory**

Euron swaggers into the room, Leyla in tow, the heavy woman panting from the many stairs down into the depths of these cells. The "little birds" scatter from the king's path. He finds Qyburn hunched over a desk with a Myrish lens, examining a pile of crumbling scrolls and, in the middle of the table, a large, smooth and charred warhorn, carved with acane markings.

"Lord Dondarrion's maester had this delivered," the old man reports. "They were uncovered in the ruins of Summerhall." Euron's one good eye widens.

"Summerhall," Leyla muses, running her hand over the horn. "This is Old Valyrian."

Suddenly, Euron grabs her from behind, making her jump. He laughs. "You're a brave woman touching that. The legends say Aegon V brought his doom through sorcery, trying to wake dragons." Qyburn glares at the two as they examine the scrolls together. Clearly neither had heeded his warning.

"Your grace, is there any in your employ that could transcribe these scrolls?" he asks.

"I will send Moqorro to you," Euron smiles. "He has other gifts I think you will want to see."

* * *

**Moat Cailin**

So this is the famous Howland Reed, Jon Snow thinks, looking over the little man across the table from him. He seems unimpressed in the presence of royalty, though his daughter stands fiercely on edge. Jon moves to calm her.

"Meera, I must thank you for your services to my brother. He wouldn't be alive if not for you."

"It was only my duty," she answers bluntly. "To the Starks. And to the Old Gods." With a glare at Zatarra and Eres, she exits.

"Lord Reed," Daenerys begins. "I suppose you know by now that we seek your guidance through the Neck. But there is another, more sensitive matter at hand." Jon glances nervously at Ser Jorah and the Red Women. "They know," she tells him, but that only heightens his nerves.

"When my brother returned from the North," Jon explains, "he was changed."

"Oh, I know of the Three-Eyed Raven," Howland smiles, finally looking up at them. "Bran told you who you really are, didn't he?" Their surprise goes unhidden, and Howland laughs. "Ned and I kept that secret for your whole lifetime. He took it to his grave and I thought to take it to mine. That boy couldn't keep it for a more than a few moonturns."

"So it's true?" Daenerys snaps. "You were there?"

"Aye. We bested the Kingsguard at the Tower of Joy, just like the legends say. But we were too late," he points to Jon. "Lyanna lived to see her brother again but she died all the same, giving birth to you. The dragon's heir."

Daenerys turns away, out of anger or frustration, Jon cannot say. In his heart, he had already known it to be true, but to hear it confirmed like this… He cannot even say how he himself feels.

"About the Neck," he changes the subject. "Cersei's loyalists have fortified the Kingsroad. We need your help to pass through the swamps."

"I'm afraid I can't help you with that," Howland answers, flippantly, and rises to leave.

"That wasn't a request, Lord Reed!" Jon commands as Jorah blocks the man's exit. "You are my sworn bannerman. My armies need safe passage through your lands."

"Your armies?" Howland looks back and forth between the two rulers. "Or hers?"

"We speak with the same voice," Jon insists. "She is my queen."

"Are you betrothed?" the crannogman asks. Reluctantly, Jon shakes his head. "Has she conceded her claim to the North?" Daenerys shakes her own. "Then one of you rules here and the other is… something else."

"Don't bring trouble upon your people," Jorah declares. "Or your daughter. Remember your oaths, Lord Howland."

"I have sworn higher oaths. Your fires have no place in my swamps."

At that, before Jon can react, Eres and Jorah have seized him and begin to drag him back to the table. Zatarra turns to Daenerys..

"This man has dark magics in him, but I will extract the answers you seek." Grabbing a burning log from the fire, her hands unburnt, she stalks ominously towards Howland, who stares unflinching into the flame.

"Enough!" Jon shouts. "Let him go! Get him out of my sight!"

"My queen!" Zatarra protests. "We cannot free him!" At the sound of shouting, two northern guards rush into the tent. For a moment, Daenerys freezes. She does not seem to know what to do. At last, she speaks, without emotion.

"Zatarra, take him back where he came from. But keep his daughter with us, to ensure his men do not rise against our own." The priestess exits with a fury, and Jorah and Eres drag Howland out. Now she and Jon are alone.

"We don't need him," Jon explains, cautiously. "We can fly the dragons over the Neck and attack from behind. It's risky, but if we stay grounded out of fear, that only gives them more power. We'd be seen as cowards."

"You are wise," Daenerys stares, unmoving. "But that is not the problem. He has spoken our fears into truth, seen with his own eyes."

"It means nothing. I do not want the throne."

"That doesn't matter!" Daenerys shouts, a fury rising in her eyes Jon has never seen. "Do you think this secret will stay hidden forever? So long as there is a male heir, I cannot know peace. This land has gone to war before to keep a woman from the throne!"

"Times change," Jon tries to console her. "The people will follow you."

"The times do not change so quickly as you may wish them. We must make the change we want to see. But I cannot do that without you by my side." Jon approaches cautiously.

"I swear I will do whatever it takes to defend your claim. Until then, we have a war to win. Get sleep. We'll fly tomorrow." Slowly, Daenerys accepts his embrace and smiles as they kiss.

* * *

**The Neck**

Dusk is falling as Zatarra and Eres trudge through the sludge of the marsh, pulling along a bound, gagged and blind-folded Howland Reed. Finally, they stop at the edge of a large pond, frosted over. The crannogman attempts to speak through his gag, but is ignored.

"Let him go," Zatarra commands, the mud having stained the fringes of her red cloak, dark furs wrapped around her bald head. Eres, frost glistening on her dragon helm, cuts through his bonds with a dagger, but does not let him speak or see. "Now finish it."

The priestess turns away as Howland struggles to flee, but the dagger that freed him now plunges twice into his chest and he topples back, breaking through the ice into the water below. Now Zatarra turns and fire erupts from her hands, washing past Eres and down onto the pool below. The two women watch as it smolders and melts the ice, the water hissing and steaming. And at last it goes still again, without disturbance.

"It is finished," Zatarra smiles. "Let the frogman's secrets die with him."

* * *

**Kingsgrave**

In the Mangoody library, Samwell Tarly and Sarella Sand have laid out a pile of journals and transcriptions before Arianne Martell. Mallora Hightower and Lord Franklyn Fowler watch as Sarella translates the codes of the old septon of Skyreach, unearthing his secret history.

All those years ago, in the midst of Robert's Rebellion, the story had been told that Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark. But the journals of the septon tell a very different tale. They were in love, he says, and fled to the Tower of Joy in the Prince's Pass. By the doctrine of exceptionalism, he had granted them leave to marry, and confirmed that Lyanna was with child when Rhaegar left to march on the Trident, where he would die.

"The tower belonged to us," Lord Fowler remembers. "I still remember the first time I saw Rhaegar. He was everything the legends said, and his lady as beautiful as he. And then they were gone. Eddard Stark thought no one saw what happened, but I did, through my falcon's eyes. Lyanna Stark died, but her child lived."

"A trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen." The words slip hushed from Arianne's mouth. "The heir to the Iron Throne. And you think that this babe grew to be Jon Snow?"

"Yes," Sam declares. "It's clear to me. Ned Stark goes north with his sister's child and then arrives at Winterfell with a babe he claims is his own bastard? And now they say Jon is a dragonrider."

"I hear he's riding the dragon in more ways than one," Sarella smirks, to Sam's visible agitation. "This changes nothing, if he marries Daenerys."

"He doesn't know her!" Sam snaps. "He doesn't know what she's done. But I know him. If he knows the truth, he will do his duty. We need to tell him. We need to tell everyone. Let the kingdoms know that they don't have to choose between Daenerys and Cersei. Jon is the true king. We can join with him and end this war."

Arianne smiles. This is it. This is what her father and Marwyn had discovered. What they had planned for her all along.

"Let it be done," she declares. And that night, the ravens fly.

* * *

**Winterfell**

At Bran's private table, Theon saws away at a tough side of beef. A meager and small dinner by summer standards. But they are in the heart of winter now. He focuses on his food and ale as Bran and Ser Kyle Condon discuss matters of ruling with tonight's guests, another collection of smallfolk welcomed to the prince's table as he aims to refill the castle household and tend to the needs of his subjects.

Such matters, while certainly important, were never of much interest to Theon, nor Obara, and so they ate, registered the guests' names, situations, and loyalty, before returning to dinner. But as Theon struggles to chew through his steak, Ghost, curled at Bran's feet begins to howl.

The smallfolk startle from their seats and the prince himself slams back in his chair, eyes rolling back as the direwolf rushes to claw at the door.

"Everything's fine!" Ser Kyle tries to calm the guests as Theon and Obara rush to Bran's side. He is shaking violently, and Obara seizes his shoulders with her strong arms to still him.

"Bran, what's wrong?" Theon whispers as the prince slowly settles and his eyes clear. Throat dry, he rasps for air, and Obara fetches him a glass of water. He drinks it slowly before finally speaking.

"It's Jon. The game is over. They know who he is."

"Jon?" Theon is confused. "What do you mean?"

"The ravens are coming. We must be ready."

* * *

_Special Guest Stars: Robert Carlyle as Howland Reed_

_ Paul Ready as Flement Brax_


	29. The Wings of War

**The Gates of the Moon**

Flickering candlelight illuminates the noble chambers of Sansa Stark and Wynafryd Manderly. While Wynafryd undresses for the night, Sansa is hunched over a desk, examining notes regarding her cousin's Order of Winged Knights. She knows the knights' vices, their tendencies, anything that could be manipulated to get to young Robin. But what to do with him once they are alone?

"Just put me in his bed chambers for an evening and he will do whatever I say," Wynafryd smirks, adjusting her bodice flirtatiously. "A small price to pay to get us on our way."

"That wouldn't do," Sansa shakes her head, annoyed. "If my cousin becomes infatuated, there will be no prying you away from him." With that comes a sharp rap on the door. "Brienne, who is it?"

Brienne does not answer, but she does slowly swing the door open. In walks a shrouded figure - Bronze Yohn's son, Lord Andar Royce.

"Princess, this missive came in the night. By the gods' grace the maester brought it to me first." His dripping hand extends a small scroll to Sansa. It is stained by rain, but still legible. The message is short, and simple, signed by the seals of Tarly, Martell and Fowler. She gasps, stumbling backward onto the bed.

_This… this can't be true. And yet…. I saw him on the dragon._

"What is it?" Wynafryd rushes to her side.

"It's Jon."

"Is something wrong? Were they attacked?"

"No… This message is from the south. It names him a king."

"He is a king." Wynafryd is confused. "The King in the North."

"No, not like that. They say here that he isn't Jon at all. They say his father wasn't my father, that his father, his true father, was Rhaegar Targaryen. All these years, he thought he was a bastard. I used to think he had brought shame on my father. But all along, he wasn't a Snow. He's Aemon Targaryen, the heir to the throne."

"What does that mean?"

"…. I don't know."

* * *

**Blackhaven**

The Daynes join the Dondarrions as they break fast. It is a happy meal, but Tywin picks at his food. His father spent all night in the study with the maesters after receiving a missive in the night. He knows this can only mean he'll depart for Summerhall today, and surely leave him behind. Finally, Lord Harlan makes his announcement.

"There have been new developments in the war. I will ride to camp before noon. Lord Edric, Tywin, you will come with me. Tywin's jaw drops.

"Harlan, must you go so soon?" Lady Penelope asks, sadly. "You've only just returned."

"My duties are elsewhere," Harlan answers without looking at his wife.

"What of me?" Ser Gerold blurts.

"You promised me an army, Darkstar," Harlan will not look at him, either. "Where is it?"

"I was betrayed!"

"You were a fool!" Harlan slams his fist on the table, rising. "And now you are a fool with nothing to offer me. If you want a place at my table, take your magic sword and reclaim what you promised. Until then, I don't wish to see you again!"

Furious, Darkstar storms out of the room. Harlan calms himself and looks back to his family.

"Tywin. Edric. Prepare for travel. Do not be late. The times change faster than our words. They will not wait upon us."

* * *

**Deep Den**

Even in his cell, Varys can hear it begin. Only a few minutes after the first screams, he is seized by the guards and hauled back before Lord Flement Brax, Lord Lydden, Ser Steffon Swyft and their counsel. On the stone table before them lie four scorched heads.

"They've found us," Flement declares. "These were found in the water basins. We cannot identify them, but it is clear who sent them." He pries open one of the charred mouth to reveal the flame of R'hllor branded on the dead man's tongue.

"We can still fight!" blusters his uncle, Ser Crassus.

"Not without water," Flement shakes his head.

"We have reserves, but with so many in the caves, it would only gain us a week or so," Lord Lydden reports. "We should count it a blessing they gave us this warning, rather than simply poison the supply."

"Then it's over." Flement rises solemnly.

"No!" Ser Steffon rises, angrily. "We cannot surrender! It is our duty to protect this pass! We cannot allow the traitors and their barbarian hordes to march on King's Landing!"

"And what of our people?" Flement raises his voice for the first time. "Tell me, Steffon, how do they weigh against our duties? ?"

"I clearly value my duty more than you! I'll lead the men myself, if I must. Craven!"

Steffon turns to storm out but Varys steps in his way.

"My lords, I pray you caution. Let me speak to the dragon queen's counsel on your behalf."

"You?" Steffon draws his sword. "You brought this upon us, spider! I should gut you right here!" As Flement and Crassus rush to restrain the raging knight, the door flies open and Maester Paxter rushes in. Grief is painted clearly in his eyes. Varys watches the blood drain from Flement's face as the report comes in.

"My lord… it's your son."

* * *

**Highgarden**

A sparrow flits down upon the railing a few inches from Missandei's hand. Ser Argilac moves as if to chase it away, but stops.

"Leave it be," Art Hightower murmurs from behind his easel, paint palette in one hand and a brush gripped tightly in the other as he smooths out the colors of Missandei's form taking shape on the canvas. The young lordling had learned to paint from his father. It was his passion, a refuge from stress.

"I rode into the town today," he said. "They still haven't recovered from the attacks of the dead, and this winter shows no signs of improving. But their lords don't care. They've abandoned them to bicker over who gets this damned castle."

"It's a beautiful place, though," Missandei sighs, scanning her surroundings without moving her body. "Though peace for them would be more beautiful still." From her place upon the railing, she can see children playing in the hedge maze below.

"It's a shame. No matter who wins, nothing will change for them," Alysanne Ambrose enters. Art nods welcome to his aunt and keeps painting. "They may have won a seat at the table, but in the end, it will only be another line of lords and ladies they must pray will be just."

"Unless there's another way," Missandei finally breaks her pose. "In the Free Cities, across the sea, there are other ways to rule. There are votes, and power is shared."

"What you speak of would completely alter the systems of Westeros." Alysanne is reluctant. "And we are at war. Such a vision is pleasing, but it may be folly to attempt such change in the midst of chaos."

"There is no better time for change!" Art blurts out. "When those in power have stability, they'll never let go. But this war has leveled the board. No one has an advantage. We'll never get another chance like this to change."

"You are here to speak with the voice of your father," Alysanne eyes him carefully. "Is this what you believe he would want?" For a moment, Art thinks, looking at the two women.

"Yes. For too long our voice has been silent. We've sat and studied and learned in Oldtown, dreaming of a better tomorrow. But now we will be heard."

* * *

**Blackhaven**

Darkstar stalks fuming through the fortress halls in full armor, clanking as he goes. The nerve of Lord Dondarrion, he thinks, after everything he sacrificed, to toss him aside like a common catspaw. He could have gone straight to King's Landing to claim his white cloak, but no, he had stayed behind to play the game, to keep Dorne loyal. And now what? Left behind by a fool and his honor. That was when he had realized that there was yet one boon he could grant Harlan Dondarrion. He had delivered the lord his own aunt, Allyria Dayne. But Harlan could not act on his desires so long as his own wife yet lived. But if he could wed again, surely he would be grateful to the man who brought him Allyria…

With Maester Otto gone at Summerhall, it had been no great task to access the potions in his chambers. Only slightly more challenging to slip them into the sick woman's tea. Now, he only had to get away. But a guard bars his path.

"Ser Gerold!" Ormund Storm calls to him. "Where are you going?" Instinctively, Darkstar reaches for _Dawn_ at his side, but calms. Slowly, he turns and adapts a grim expression.

"Dire news from the Prince's Pass. I must warn Lord Harlan. We must take your fastest horses if we are to reach him in time!" The bastard obeys without question. Darkstar and the riders are far beyond the walls of Blackhaven before the septas cry out – Lady Penelope Dondarrion is dead.

* * *

**Cersei's Chambers**

"A glass candle?" the queen sneers incredulously. "And what will you do with that?"

Euron gapes incredulously, as if he cannot believe her disinterest.

"With such sorcery our reach will be unmatched! I shall watch our enemies move from afar, direct our armies into their path and lay waste to them. I shall be the horror that haunts their dreams, the…"

"Enough!" Cersei silences him. "You and your priest may tinker with mysticism all you want. I tried my hand at the magics of fire and blood and they failed me. I shall only place my trust in what I know."

Furious, Euron hurls a flagon of wine against the wall and storms out, cursing violently and shoving Qyburn out of the way as he passes. The Queen's Hand timidly enters the room, carefully stepping over the spilled wine.

"My queen, I fear you ought not anger the man so."

"He talks of madness."

"Nary a moon past all learned men would call me mad to say the dead could walk. Magic has reawakened in a way unseen since the Age of Heroes. We must use all means possible if we are to win this war. And we cannot afford to lose King Euron's favor."

"King Euron," Cersei spits out the title. "He has no power but that granted to him by sharing my bed. I am queen. I sit the throne."

"Your grace, you must realize how small your garrison is," Qyburn tries to explain calmly. "Most were slain or scattered in the Reach. Those left in the West follow Ser Damion now. What men remain sworn to you here in the city are horribly outnumbered by those who answer first to Euron!"

"He's lost the Iron Islands to his niece!"

"Yes, but his men here do not waver in loyalty. And the people of the city follow him, not you. We cannot even count assured the City Watch!"

"Then let him do what he wishes," Cersei sighs, dismissively. "Give him what he wills to keep him happy. But I do not want his magic near me. I will wage wars with weapons I can hold in hand. True steel I can trust. That is the only ultimate power in this land. Like my Golden Company. Arranging them was my finest moment."

"Your grace, it was Lady Genna who bargained with the Company."

"No! Do not speak of her! She thinks she's so clever! She raised me, it must drive her mad to see her brother's little girl grow far wiser and more beautiful than she."

Suddenly, Qyburn begins to feel decidedly cold. "Of course, your grace," he stammers. "But I assure you, your aunt wants only what is best for the realm."

"I don't care about the realm, I care about me!" Cersei topples forward in her fury and Qyburn helps her back onto her bed, cradling her pregnant stomach. She groans. "And I can trust no one to defend me. Not Genna, not Balon Swann, not Euron. Only you. And sometimes I'm not so sure." Qyburn desperately searches for words as the queen eyes him ominously.

"My queen, there is another matter, one that may play to our advantage. A missive arrived from Kingsgrave..."

"I am weary!" she cuts him off. "Find Harry Strickland. Tell him to march. I want this war ended before my child arrives."

* * *

**Harry Strickland's Mance**

Tyrion Lannister has heard tales of the raucous party that has consumed Dragonstone ever since the Golden Company landed. But here in the Captain-General's home in the capital, the atmosphere is serene. Musicians play on the harp and lute as the small, weary man cuts away at a simple meal. Tyrion eyes the gilded skulls hanging on the wall behind Harry's chair and scratches at his itchy fool's motley. His mind screams to speak and he feels a drop of blood on the stump that once was his tongue.

"I prefer my fools to be witty," Strickland grumbles, grinding a piece of gristle between his teeth. "The hell am I to do with you, the tongueless lion? Yes, I've heard about you. A terrible crime, I must say, to cut off a mind like yours from the use of words." He follows Tyrion's eyes to the skull. "I see you've noticed my predecessors. Surely a learned man as yourself knows the history of my company. Generations of exiles, back to Bittersteel himself. All sworn to one day return to Westeros. And Homeless Harry did it. I've brought them home. Not that it'll do them any good."

He motions for his squire, a handsome young lad with dyed blue hair. Tyrion watches the boy carefully as he pours two glasses of wine, and does not take the cup offered him.

"Thank you, Grif," Strickland sends the boy on his way. "Your eyes are quick, Imp. Don't think I don't see through this charade. If I had any secrets from your sister, I'd sooner die than speak them to the simple, silent fool. I'm a learned man like yourself, after all. The quiet ones have the most devious ears. But there is something I will show you"

At that, he rises, and crosses the room to an elaborate, golden chest set against the opposite wall. Slowly, he opens the lid. Tyrion lets out a choked gasp as Strickland reaches in and raises a sword. A sword with dragon hilts and a blood-red pommel.

_Blackfyre._

The Valyrian steel blade of the Targaryens. Wielded by every king until Bittersteel took it across the Narrow Sea and nary seen in the century since. Strickland chuckles to see Tyrion's shocked recognition.

"Captain-General!" They turn, startled, to see Qyburn in the doorway with four of his personal guard.

"I'm sorry, my lord," Grif bows, panicked, before stepping aside.

"No matter, boy," Strickland smiles. "I welcome the Lord Hand."

"Perhaps unwisely," Qyburn draws near to examine the sword, which the general presents with a grin. "The rabble are quick to forget their past. But we are not rabble. Your army was born of exiles, cast out for backing a bastard's line, a false dragon's claim to the throne. And now you return, with so many pretenders already in our midst. And we welcome you with parades? What Bittersteel could not do with blades, you've done with a smile."

Strickland laughs dismissively. "In the end, my lord, this is just a sword. All know the Blackfyre line ended decades past, at the hands of Ser Barristan Selmy himself."

"Nonetheless, I want you on your way. Your men will march tomorrow. You have made great promises, Harry Strickland. See that you keep them."

* * *

**Deep Den**

"Walder had always been a sickly boy," Flement Brax whispers, head in his hands. He is alone in his chambers, save for Varys. "When we fled into the caves, the maesters feared the effects. But it was the only way." Heavy tears roll down through the stubble on his cheeks. "And now he's gone."

"My lord!" The septon of Hornvale bursts in – Carmile, a sour-toothed old man, clearly distraught. "The say you mean to surrender."

"I do, Carmile," Flement's eyes harden. "What, do the Seven wish to chastise me?"

"My lord, I fear it would invite their wrath to let the armies of the Red God defile this place and march upon the capital!"

"Their wrath?" He stands angrily. Varys tries to calm him, but is pushed away. "The wrath that took my son away?" He seizes the septon by his white robes. "Twas not a year past you told me Daenerys Targaryen was chosen by the gods to punish the godless Cersei Lannister. Now you tell me Cersei is their champion against the heathen dragon? No!" He throws Carmile to the floor. "I know the holy books, father. I know my prayers. And I will protect my people! If that is a sin, then let the gods damn me. But I will fight no more."

Struggling to his feet, the holy man hobbles out of the room. When Flement turns back to Varys, the tears have come again and he falls into his seat.

"Tell me, spider, am I right? I do not know anymore. I was never meant to lead, I'm a third son. My Walder's dead and they'll surely kill Robert now. And then my own third son will be left in my place. What have I done?"

"My lord, I promise no harm will befall your son," Varys offers a smile, sitting beside the grief-stricken man.

"Why?" Flement's dull eyes rise to meet Varys. "Why do you help me? I know who you are. If you merely wanted me to lose, I would be dead by now. And yet here we are. I think… I think your new queen has lost your heart. But why?"

"I still believe in Daenerys Targaryen," Varys says sternly. "Cersei and Euron must be torn down, for the good of us all. But I fear this Red God most of all. I am a creature of the night. And an eternal summer has no place for the likes of me."

"Then perhaps you should have this," Flement presses a missive into Varys' palm. "It came from Kingsgrave. I have told no one else."

"What…"

"A secret that slipped through even your web."

Before Varys can pry more, the door flings open. Septon Carmile, clearly listening at the door, is pushed aside by Ser Crassus Brax, ducking in such small chambers.

"Lord Lydden and his household are descending into the lower levels. There are safe places there that the barbarians will never find. Come with us."

"No," Flement rises, shaking his head. "Take the children, Crassus. Take my wife. But not me. If I am not taken, they will search for me until you are all dead. Either way, I've lost my family. I'd sooner they remember me as honorable than a craven." He turns back to Varys. "Take me to them. Let us end this game once and for all."

* * *

**The Twins**

A cold rain turns snow to slush as Edmure Tully rides along the swollen riverbank towards the bridge and towers just ahead. The old stronghold of the Freys now flies a half dozen banners – Lannister, Bracken, Vypren, Erenford. Beside him rides young Lord Brynden Blackwood. Both follow behind Lord Jonos Bracken, who spurs his horse furiously on through the downpour.

At last they arrive within the gates of the Twins. Stableboys hurry to assist them as the lords and their accompanying knights rush in out of the storm. Inside, they are met by a steward bearing the Nayland hellbender arms.

"Is there news from the Neck, boy?" Bracken shouts, rainwater shaking off him. The lad freezes, stuttering. Bracken slaps him across the face, leaving a wet, red mark. "I said speak!"

"T…t…the dragons, m'lord. The dragons came upon the men from behind in the dark of the night. It was over in minutes they say, most turned cloak and fled."

"The damned fools!" Bracken thunders, storming deeper into the building. The steward rushes to keep pace and Edmure and Brynden follow. "Where is Ser Harwyn Plumm?"

"Dead, m'lord, burned in dragonfire by all accounts."

"Idiot Lannister dogs! He thought he could command these forces better than me?" He swings wide open the doors of the Great Hall. "I was right all along. If you want something done, do it yourself."

"By the gods, Jonos, it's over!" Brynden protests.

"So speaks the son of a traitor!" Bracken silences him, but at long last Edmure has had enough. He stomps his foot.

"He's right. I will not bring further bloodshed upon my lands."

"I though as much," Bracken's eyes darken. "Barbara, come in!"

Edmure turns slowly as Bracken's eldest daughter enters the hall. His blood stops when he sees who is with her – his lady wife, Roslin, holding their son Robb.

"Jonos, why are they here?" he asks, cautiously.

"Why, they are my guests," Bracken smiles. "And yours as well. I have found that the presence of loved ones helps a lord to remember his loyalties."

"You would not dare touch my child," Edmure struggles to keep his voice steady.

"I would dare do anything for the Crown," Jonos glares as Brynden draws his sword. "I am no traitor. And loyalty is rewarded. Barbara, bring me the boy!"

It feels as every muscle in his body is frozen in his body as Edmure stands still. _Not again_, he tells himself. _I failed my sister, my uncle, my king. Not again_. But he cannot move. Little Robb begins to cry and Roslin shrieks as Barbara, panicked, glances back and forth between the men. Impatient, her father turns to her.

"Listen to me, girl! This castle will belong to you when we are through! Or Riverrun, if you prefer. No harm need come to the boy so long as his coward father…" Suddenly, Jonos stops and chokes. He reaches down to find a dagger in his side. Edmure Tully's dagger.

"You fool," he gasps. "You've doomed us all." As Jonos falls to the ground, Barbara and Roslin shriek. Edmure rushes to calm his wife and child. His son in his arms, he turns back to Brynden.

"Lower the banners and vacate the garrison. The dragons are coming."

* * *

**Summerhall**

From the moment that the encampment surrounding the partially rebuilt ruins appears, Tywin can tell that something is wrong. The tents are in disarray, and several men are tearing down the lightning flash banners of House Dondarrion. As they reach the gatehouse, now near fully rebuilt, Lord Arstan Selmy stumbles towards them, face bloodied. He collapses against the leading horse.

"Arstan, what is the meaning of this?" Harlan leaps down into the mud. Ser Balerion follows, but Tywin and Edric Dayne remain nervously mounted.

"The bastard, my lord!" Selmy gasps. "They forded the River Slayne. He and his sister caught Prince Anders' forces beneath the walls of Stonehelm. A total route! They say Gendry Baratheon slew Prince Anders with his father's warhammer, just as King Robert slew Prince Rhaegar at the Trident!"

"Gendry Rivers!" Harlan slaps Selmy and shoves him into the mud. "A bastard cannot claim legitimacy from an illegitimate queen! Prince Anders has fallen, yes, but what is happening here?"

"It is a sign, Harlan!" All turn to the gateway, now blocked by a dozen knights with rainbow plumes of the Faith and seven crystals in their breastplates. Tywin recognizes them instantly, members of the famously pious company, the Holy Hundred. And the speaker is their leader – a withered stork of a man, Ser Bonifer Hasty

"A sign of what, Ser Bonifer?" Harlan shifts his heavy black cape to show the sword at his side. "A sign of treason?"

"I warned you it was folly to stand with Cersei. She seized the throne without a claim, destroyed the Great Sept, filled its ruins with the profane gods of her blasphemous king. The dragons have returned to rain righteous fire upon her and all who stand with her!"

Tywin is shocked to hear his father laugh. "Tell me, Ser Bonifer, how many septs have the red priests burned? How many pious men have they given over to the flame?" The holy knight has no answer for that. "If you will cease this madness, I will make it clear a path that will be fortuitous for us and the gods."

Confidently, he steps forward, but, foreseeing a threat, one of the knights lunges forward. Tywin cries out in fear but even before Harlan reacts, Ser Balerion's massive sword is in hand, twice the width of a normal blade. In an instant it has cleaved the side of the rogue knight. Bonifer is yelling something, but it is undiscernible as three more men attack, then another two. Two more of the Horpe knights riding behind them leap from their horses and into the fray, white rags flitting in between the cold, slow steel armor. But towering above them all is Ser Baelrion, raining down blow after blow with his blade. Here he shatters a spear in two, there he decapitates a head in a single stroke.

The duel is over near as soon as it has begun, the six armored knights dead on the ground. Bonifer's remaining guards flank around him, but Balerion shoves them aside to seize their leader and throw him facedown in the mud before Harlan, planting his heavy grey boot in the square of the man's back. Tywin watches his father draw his sword and place the tip between Bonifer's eyes.

"Your men are good fighters, ser, and surely blessed by the gods. But mine are better. Recant the folly of these dead fools and recommit your men to me."

Bonifer coughs at the heavy mud creeping into his throat as Balerion presses down harder at his back. Slowly, Harlan raises his sword…

"I yield!" Bonifer shouts.

"Good," Harlan smiles. Balerion frees the old knight, who is helped to his feet by two of his men, wiping the dirt from his sunken face.

"The Holy Hundred are at your service, my lord. May the Crone light your way and the Warrior give you strength."

"The Holy Ninety-Four, more-like," Harlan looks down at the dead men. "Take them away!" He then looks at the crowd of lords, knights and men-at-arms that have gathered around him. Tywin beams with pride as he watches them kneel in homage to his father.

"It is true, Anders Yronwood is fallen to the bastard boy of Flea Bottom!" Harlan declares. "But he is no true Baratheon. He does not know us! He will come here to meet his true lord. And we will break the antlers from his helm and show him a true storm!"

* * *

**Stonehelm**

As dusk falls, Arya Stark leaves behind Davos Seaworth and Sandor Clegane as they tend to the wounded outside the walls of House Swann's keep. She does not wish to spend any more time among the dead and dying. There is another she seeks. And he is very much alive.

She finds Gendry sitting alone atop a hill looking away from the castle towards the sun as it disappears over the horizon. He is still in his mail, the yellow and black of his surcoat fading together in the darkness. He is still clearly shaken. His father's warhammer lies beside him, buried in the dirt, still spattered with blood.

"You should clean that," she kicks him softly. But he doesn't laugh.

"I don't know how many men I killed today," he murmurs, barely a whisper. "They tell me one of them was the new Prince of Dorne."

"You were brilliant! No one would dare challenge your claim now. You're a warrior, just like your father." Arya smiles, but it is clear Gendry does not share her pride. "We won," she sits beside him. "Your army won."

"And what if we hadn't?" he turns to her, his face cloaked in dusky shadow, but she can see the glint of tears on his face. "I'm not supposed to be a lord. I was supposed to be a smith. Lords are supposed to be wise. Lords have to know what's right. I'm not a wise man. I can't look at all these dead men and say this was right. I've killed before, but only men in defense. I've never wanted to fight."

"If you want me to tell you it gets easier, I won't. You don't want it to get easy. That's the worst part. To not feel anything when it happens. You don't want to be like me." Gendry moves to protest but, on impulse, she silences him with a kiss. His eyes draw wide in shock. "I want you to be you. You're no lord. You're no warrior. You're Gendry. That's what your people need. And that's what I want. I don't know how you can still love me after all you've seen me do. After how I treated you. But it's who you are. And I like that. No, I love it." Gingerly, she reaches her hands within his mail and begin to remove the cold metal, exposing his hardened torso to the crisp evening air. "I'd forgotten what love felt like. But if this is love, I never want to stop feeling it."

She feels him slowly, carefully pull at the laces of her breeches and kisses him again as he lies onto his back. He gasps as she tugs at his own laces with far less patience. His eyes stare up past her to the sky.

"I've never seen so many stars..."

"Enough talk," she chides, playfully, his pants are half-off now. "I hope you're not too thick-headed to keep up, you bull." And then his eyes are only on her, as their bodies begin to move in tandem. The wars and the doubts can wait, at least for tonight. As willo'wisps flit about and mix with the stars above, there is only the teo young travelers, binding their journeys as one.

* * *

**The Red Mountains**

Darkstar's breath comes pounds heavily as he flees down a narrow forest path. He'd never seen the men coming. Were they bandits? He couldn't say. They'd killed two scouts and he'd abandoned Ormund Storm to their mercy. He would wait no longer to get to Summerhall. His lilac cape turns to grey in the shadow as it flows out behind his recklessly driven horse. Suddenly, the long fabric catches in a low branch, tearing the knight back. He pulls on the reigns to hold tight, but the sharp turn sends his mount stumbling in the dim gravel of the mountain pass. The air is hurled out of his lungs as he slams down onto the ground. He can hear footsteps coming towards him, and rushes to disentangle his cloak.

As he pulls, two men emerge from the darkness, spears in hand. The first charges, impaling the cape, and it at last tears free from the branch, sending Darkstar stumbling back. He has _Dawn_ out of its scabbard and in hand in an instant, the white blade glistening in the dusk.

"You know not who you've challenged, fools," the knight sneers. But then the dim moon reflects off of white paint - smeared skulls across their faces. Not bandits. Manwoody men. It makes no difference, he tells himself, as they charge him. He sidesteps their thrusts and kills the most zealous one quickly. The other he must dodge and parry a few more times. Finally, a well-placed thrust sends him toppling over the edge of the cliff. Breathing heavily, but grinning all the same, Darkstar cleans the blood from Dawn. And then the hulking, shadowy form of Ser Rolland Storm rises up from the shadows, axe in hand.

"Is your whore princess with you, bastard?" he sneers. "I was going to kill you both later, but you've done me a great favor by meeting me to complete the deal."

"You havn't changed," Rolland shakes his head. "You're no true knight. And you'll never be worthy of that sword."

Enraged, Darkstar charges forward. _Dawn_ swings down on the bastard's axe with a fury. Whooping a war cry, Rolland returns the attack. Axe and sword echo across the mountain ridge, blow upon blow ringing out. But what the larger man holds in strength, Darkstar claims in speed. He lands a slice to his foe's thigh, another to his back. Rolland does not cry in pain, but he slows yet further. Seeing victory, Darkstar swings down with his full strength. But Rolland steps out of the way, and _Dawn_ comes cutting down into the heavy red stone of the mountain. And sticks.

Suddenly frantic, the knight tugs furiously at his family's ancient blade, yet it refuses to yield an inch. He knows he should run, but no, the sword is his! And then the axe is upon him. It hits directly between his plate, severing his sword arm clean at the shoulder. Screaming in pain, he topples away as Rolland collapses to the ground. He can hear more footsteps.

Now Darkstar runs – off of the path, remaining hand clenched tight over his wound, desperate to stop the bleeding. Dagger-sharp needles slash at his face as he trundles on blindly, feet unseen. He does he see the crevice until it has swallowed his left ankle. With a sickening crack he falls forward, head slamming on the rock. There is blood everywhere now, who knows from where. He chokes, gasping for breath.

_I can recover. Jaime Lannister served without his hand. They think they've beaten me, the fools. Their deaths will only be the worse for this._

And then, silent as if on wings, a shadow in a black dress slips out from the trees. The moon is high now, and the light through the pines flickers off of a silver halfmask – the head of a vulture. Arianne Martell.

She treads softly near him until she is at his side, leaning inches away from his face. And he is helpless to kill her. She smells sickeningly sweet, perfume of the mountain flowers. He chokes on her smell and looks into her eyes. As beautiful as ever, he thinks. Until, slowly, she slips off the mask. Beneath it lie the scars – mangled flesh, twisted and torn. He laughs.

"The legendary beauty of Princess Arianne. You thought you could bring seven kingdoms to their knees by dropping to your own." He hacks up bloody spittle, which she wipes away without flinching. "At least I took that from you. Bitch!" Viciously, he headbutts her and begins to laugh hysterically. Instead she rises, her face smeared with the battered knight's blood. Without a word, she picks up a large, jagged stone and begins to walk back toward him.

"No. You took nothing from me. I am who I say I am. And I am Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne, Vulture Queen of the Red Mountains. And soon, queen of all Seven Kingdoms." She drops to her knees, straddling Darkstar's chest. He tries to move, but his strength is gone. She holds the stone high, blotting out the moon.

"And I remain – Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken."

The rock falls.

* * *

**Highgarden**

Missandei and Art's faces are carefully obscured by hoods as Ser Argilac leads them through the camp to the Tarly's tent. Ser Bronn had insisted the claimants remain quartered outside the walls. For his own safety, he said. And not without reason. Numerous attempts had already been made on the castellan's life.

Missandei is surprised to see another knight on guard with tattered white robes matching Argilac's. Her protector nods familiarly at the smaller, younger guard.

"Greetings uncle," Ser Daeron Horpe's hand twitches nervously at his hilt. His eyes dart to the two shrouded guests, widening as he recognizes Missandei. "My lady!"

Missandei gasps and pulls her shroud tighter as Argilac steps between them.

"Who do you serve, nephew?"

"The lady Tarly."

"Good. Then see to it that no one else hears of this meeting." Daeron nods affirmingly and slides open the tent flap. Finding young Talla Tarly reclining alone inside, they remove their hoods.

"What do you want?" Talla groans, tired. "I pray you aren't another suitor. Lord Titus said I needn't entertain them hear, yet they come all the same."

"No, my lady," Missandei takes a seat beside her. "We come on a far greater matter. The future of your home."

"Don't you serve the dragon queen?" Talla recoils when she recognizes Missandei, who only now remembers the stories of what Daenerys had done to this girl's family. Suddenly, she is at a loss for words.

"Lady Missandei serves the Hightower," Art extends a comforting hand. "She mourns the passing of your father and brother, as do we all." Talla looks cautiously into Missandei's eyes until something resembling trust appears. "She is very wise, and very kind, and she wants what we all want. Peace and justice in The Reach. But we need your help."

Only a few minutes later, the trio departs, to avoid suspicion. But the seeds have been planted. Young Talla is a pleasant girl, Missandei decides, unprepared for her status and role but genuinely interested in her people's welfare. And now she is an ally. Missandei beams with pride, clutching the Hand's pin within her cloak. Daenerys would be pleased. But as they slip away from the Tarly tent, a girl rides by, flanked by guards. Art stifles a gasp of horror at the sight. Barely 12, the young lady's face is half-hairless - warped and cracked, covered in horrendous burns.

"Bellany Vyrwel, Lady of Darkdell," Argilac reports, grimly. "Her whole family was slain by dragonfire. She is the last of her line."

In an instant, the girl is gone, Argilac has lifted Missandei onto her horse and they are riding back to the safety of the castle walls. But in her mind, the scars remain. And in the eyes, the dragon's flame.

* * *

**The Twins**

The cold winter air tears against Jon as he clings to Rhaegal's back, the dragon soaring down over the river. Daenerys is close behind on Drogon. The larger dragon is stronger, but Rhaegal is faster. And both are faster than their armies, left two days march behind.

As the towers of the Twins come into view, Jon sees at once that their banners have been torn down and replaced with the rainbow pennant of surrender. Assembling in the field in front of the bridge is a great crowd. The leaders stumble, pushed back by the wind as the two dragons swoop mightily down to land before them. At once, he recognizes his uncle Edmure at their head, a fair woman beside him, young babe in arms, with a young man in crimson armor at his right. He can tell Edmure is struggling to stay brave in sight of the dragons, the nostrils breathing heavy steam in the frigid air.

Both riders dismount. Jon and Daenerys walk to greet the lords together. As they near, all kneel.

"My king," Edmure says without looking up. "The Twins are yours. I beg you, show mercy to my people."

"Who is this man?" Daenerys looks down, confused.

"Lord Edmure Tully. My uncle, of sorts. It was at his wedding, at this keep, that my brother was murdered."

"And where the Stranger so graciously brought bloody vengeance upon House Frey!" Edmure interjects, still looking down. Jon shudders at that thought. That was not the Stranger. That was Arya.

"My king…" the lady Roslin stammers, holding up her boy with shaking hands. "We named him Robb."

At a loss for words, Jon gently lifts the silent child. He sees deep blue eyes and already a vibrant tangle of auburn hair. He can see Robb in the boy. His own Robb. His brother. But not truly. What were they now? Cousins? No. Whatever their blood, their bond was the same.

Jon hands the boy to Daenerys. It gurgles happily in her arms and she smiles. She has wont to smile too rarely these days, Jon thinks, and is happy himself, for a moment.

"Edmure Tully, to you swear the allegiance of you and your lands to me and to Daenerys Targaryen, true queen of the Seven Kingdoms?"

"I do."

"Then rise!" Jon commands, and the household stands. "But I do not want this place. It is accursed." Turning away he returns to Rhaegal. "Let the bridge remain. But no family shall ever again sit atop the Crossing!"

With just a thought, Rhaegal's wings launch them into the air. Jon grits his teeth in the icy wind as his dragon spins in the air, back towards the towers of House Frey. He can feel the heat building within Rhaegal's belly. He has spent so long fighting others' wars. But now – this is for him. For Robb. For father.

"Dracarys!"


	30. Blackfyre

**Winterfell**

Bran Stark sits alone in the Great Hall, save for Obara Sand on guard at the door. Theon Greyjoy enters on crutches.

"Your grace, more missives from the lords came today," he reports. "They want to know what you plan to do."

Bran sighs heavily, looking to his guardians for support. The truth about Jon's lineage had come as a shock to them both, Theon particularly. And now the Stark bannermen turn to the Prince of Winterfell to know what this means for their loyalty, and which throne their king means to sit upon. But in truth, for all his omniscience, Bran finds himself at a loss for answers.

"I cannot say what Jon will do. He does not yet know that the truth has been revealed. And when he does… only he can decide what happens next."

* * *

**Daenerys's Camp**

Daenerys watches angrily as Lord Edmure Tully and his bannermen disappear over the horizon. She turns to Jon, at her side.

"Why did you let them go?"

"These past years have been hell for the Riverlands. First the Lannisters, then the Dead. They're a broken people, scattered and afraid in winter. I cannot ask them to fight our war."

"How can we ask others to fight when you let your uncle's men go home?"

"He's not my uncle. Not really. But he is a good man who only wants the best for his people. We can trust him."

Daenerys glares at him. "You ought to be more careful with such idle talk. You never know who may be listening."

Jon, hurt, leaves to see to the sentries. Daenerys leaves to the small tent where their newest wards have been held. Meera Reed has been joined by a collection of children of the Riverlords, handed over to ensure loyalty. She can feel their fear as she enters, and it shames her. Her people should not be afraid.

Finally, a small boy speaks, tremoring.

"Are you going to feed us to the dragons?"

"No!" Daenerys is taken aback. "I would never… You are not prisoners. You are our honored guests, all of noble and loyal families, and you will have every comfort you desire."

"I'm cold," a small Vypren girl whimpers.

"Get her a blanket," Daenerys commands.

"I want to go home," another whispers. Daenerys hesitates.

"I promise, you will all go home soon."

"She's lying," Daenerys looks to see Meera Reed lurking in shadowy corner of the tent. "We're hostages. We only go free if she wins and our parents bend the knee. I wouldn't take her blankets if I were you. Or her food. No gift from a queen is without a price. And you can never trust a dragon."

* * *

**Highgarden**

In Missandei's dreams, she sees the castles in flames, melting stones and the screams of families. And then she sees the girl, the little lady of Darkdell, the flesh of her face melting and dripping away, pointing an accusatory finger as she bursts into flame.

Awakening with a shriek, Missandei finds Ser Argilac already in her room, and the sounds of commotion come in through the window.

"My lady, we must pack your things," the grim knight insists as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. "Here." He extends a fine travel gown to her, and awkwardly turns away as she dresses herself.

"What's happening? We were to present our proposal to the lords today." Her mind struggles to keep pace with the sudden change. They had been so close to making a real difference here, to seeing the type of change Daenerys had come to bring. What could have gotten in the way?

"Ser Bronn and our hosts are waiting," Argilac beckons and his white robes flit out the door. She stumbles along behind him, hurrying to put on shoes. They find a great assembly gathered in the lord's hall before Bronn. She rushes to where Art Hightower waits by his uncle and aunt – Ser Garth Hightower and Alysanne Ambrose, with her husband, Arthur.

"Deep Den has fallen," Alysanne whispers to her. "The Red Army marches on the capital. Our own men have been ordered to intercept them before they can besiege the city. You'll have to come with us. It's not safe for you alone, especially not now."

"But what about Highgarden?" Missandei is shocked. "What about our plan?"

"Your dreams will have to wait for now," Alysanne places a calming hand on the younger woman's shoulder and smiles. "Do not despair. Highgarden will not fade away overnight. We will return for these people, I swear. This story does not end today."

"Sister," Garth gruffly lurches forward. "We should inspect the supplies before we march."

"Of course," Alysanne turns back to Missandei a final time. "Make sure your things are ready. You will ride with us." She points to Argilac. "Don't let her out of your sight."

* * *

**Gendry's Camp**

Arya Stark storms out of the counsel tent, furious.

_A challenge?_ _The bannermen might as well have suggested Gendry dive off a cliff. Battle is one thing, but single combat quite another. And not even Davos had protested._

She thinks she hears the old smuggler calling after her, but storms on until she finds Sandor Clegane reclining beneath a tree.

"Do you know what their plan is?" she asks, disgusted.

"Let me guess. The little lordling will challenge the usurper to single combat?" He laughs, then grimaces from a pain in his leg. "Stormlords are so predictable. Their precious fucking honor…"

"You should go," Arya slumps down beside him and steals his flask of ale. "Gendry's just a boy. You're The Hound."

"My days as a champion are over, cub," Sandor sighs, shaking his hobbled leg. "And your little smith isn't a boy anymore. You've chosen a lord to be your lover. And this is what lords do."

Arya spits out the ale. "He's not my…"

"When'll you learn I'm not as dumb as I look?" Sandor wrestles his flask back and drinks the rest of it. "You love each other, anyone can see that. That shit makes you stupid. It ain't for me, that's for sure, but it looks good on you. Don't mess it up tryin' to protect him."

"But what if he dies?"

"Then you'll have a damn fine song to sing. But for now, ya' gotta believe in him."

Arya grits her teeth. She knows in her heart he's right. But it's so hard… "I guess I can try that." She shakes the last drops from the flask. "But I'll need a lot more of this."

* * *

**Summerhall**

The most complete of the renovated towers has been set aside for Lord Harlan Dondarrion and his company. Young Tywin has a room all to himself. He is pondering if Edric Dayne has to share his own quarters when Arstan Selmy arrives at his door. The kind, portly lord's face is still cut and bruised from the recent quarrels, but it is darkened still by something else.

"My lord," Arstan's voice cracks and the grief is clear. "Dark wings bring dark wards from Blackhaven. Your lady mother…"

He need not finish the words and Tywin is gone, shoving the lord aside and sprinting to the stairs, racing to his father's quarters at the top of the tower. He runs inside quicker than Ser Balerion can stop him.

He finds Harlan reclining at his table, reading, seemingly unmoved.

"You killed her!" he shouts as Balerion's huge hands finally grasp ahold of his shoulders.

"Whatever do you mean, boy?" Harlan barely looks up from his book.

"You killed my mother! You wanted to have the Dayne woman instead, you always did, but she was betrothed to Uncle Beric! Now he's dead and you've killed mother to marry her, just like you always wanted! Look at you, you're not even crying!"

Harlan only sighs. "My son, you have always known your mother and I shared little love. Ours was a union of duty. She was a sickly woman. And, sadly, sickly women and men die every day. She is at last free from her pain. You should take solace in that, not dream up mad conspiracies. I think I was wrong to bring you here. You're not well."

His rage only heightened, Tywin pulls free of Balerion's grasp and storms back out of the room, down to the yard, climbing the scaffolding onto the half-finished ramparts. As such, he is among the first to hear the shouts of the sentries and the first to see the banners appear over the horizon - The Vulture Queen has arrived.

* * *

**The Gold Road**

The taking of Deep Den had gone easily enough. Ser Steffon Swyft had resisted with a handful of men, but they had been swiftly cut down. Now Flement Brax is dragged before the counsel of the Dragon Queen as Varys retakes his place beside Crakehall and the Queen's Hand – Damion Lannister.

But the man who will accuse him is one the eunuch does not recognize at first, until he hears his voice – Ser Forley Prestor, freshly declared warrior-priest of R'Hllor.

"Flement Brax!" Prestor shouts. "You stand accused of defying and resisting the righteous path of the true queen, Daenerys Targaryen, conspiring against her and her allies and waging warfare against the soldiers of the one true god. How do you plead?"

Flement looks up in time to see his son, Robert, dragged into the room by Tybolt Crakehall. The sight seems to give strength to the beaten lord, and he stands.

"All these things are true," he declares. "I did my duty to the throne and the queen who sits upon it, Cersei Lannister. I do not recognize the authority of your false queen nor your god of smoke and mirrors!"

"Blasphamy!" Prestor strikes him across the mouth.

"Burn him!" Lord Crakehall thunders.

"I will take the Black!" Flement shouts as Prestor continues to beat him back to the ground. "Send me to the Wall!"

"Stop, priest!" Damion commands. He rises and approaches Flement. "The Wall is fallen, Lord Brax, and the White Walkers were slain by our queen herself. The Night's Watch is gone. If you wish, you may join the Fiery Hand. Dedicate yourself to the service of Rh'llor, be an example to your heir, and your life will be spared."

Flement takes a final look at his son before spitting a bloody tooth out at Damion's feet.

"I will never serve your god."

"A pity," Damion sighs. "I thought you wiser. Martyrdom is a fool's glory. Take him away. But there will be no burnings yet. We may have need of him later." With that, Prestor and two of his men, in the armor of the Fiery Hand, drag Flement from the room. As he passes Varys one last time, there is nothing in his eyes but a look of betrayal.

* * *

**Summerhall**

Tywin eyes the guests suspiciously. The fat young lord looks friendly enough. He remembers Sam Tarly vaguely from their youth. The boy had been kind. Not like his father. Randyll Tarly had always frightened Tywin. The dark-skinned, slender woman with the short hair was clever and witty as well. But this strange woman in the vulture mask unnerves him.

"When will your father be prepared to see us?" Arianne asks.

"I don't know," Tywin glares. "I am not speaking to him." The trio pass an inquisitive glance amongst themselves at that.

"Tell me Tywin, there are two lords in the Stormlands now, your father and Robert's bastard, this Gendry. Tell me, what do you know of him?"

"If you wish to ally with my father, then you're fools," the sullen boy declares. "I used to worship him, think he's a hero. But I'll tell you what I've learned. He's only the hero of his own story, where he makes the rules and frames the world to make it fit to him. He'll make you think you're doing what you want, when really it's all his plan. And you won't realize it until it's too late. And then you lose…" His rant breaks to tears. Sam instinctively tries to comfort him, but is pushed away.

"The bastard boy is naïve, I hear. He does what he's told. But you'll never even get to meet him. He's already lost. He started the game against my father. And my father always wins."

* * *

**Summerhall**

After all he had been through, Sam had hoped he would no longer be nervous. But here, before Harlan Dondarrion and his bannermen, he knows he still does not feel like a lord. The walls are lines with ominous Horpe knights, spectral watchers in the shadows. Sam shivers, bows politely, and lets Arianne do the talking.

"I'm thankful for this meeting, Lord Dondarrion," she is saying. "My allies and I…"

"There is no need for such pleasentries," Harlan silences her. "I know you all. Ser Daemon Peake, sent to march while your nephew vies to take Highgarden? What do you have to gain, I wonder? Lady Tarly's hand for your son? And Lord Fowler. I have my archers eyeing the skies for your hawk. I will have no witchcraft here. Sarella Sand, Mallora Hightower, both enigmas, I must allow. But I can see your fathers in you. More than I'd think either would admit." Now he's standing inches away from Sam, who tries desperately not to show fear.

"I remember you as a child, Tarly," Harlan's voice is cold and still as ice. "Your father's great disappointment. But also, I hear a man who can cure greyscale. The rest of your exploits, though, I fear are more troubling. It seems you've fled every oath you've ever taken, and left your homes in ruins behind you."

"And you," Harlan turns now to Arianne. "Duran's heir. Many thought you a lost cause, but I knew no child of Duran could be as brainless as you played at. But being Princess was not enough. You stand before me in the crown of a forgotten song and a mask to hide your true face. This is all still a game to you, isn't it? A game that ends with this… Jon Snow on the Iron Throne."

"I did not come here to recite family history or to be talked down to," Arianne snaps, stepping forward. The Horpes reach for arms, but are stilled. "I expect respect." She looks to Sam. "We all do."

"You brought Lord Dayne his family sword," Harlan continues, unfazed. "I take it this means you've killed the Darkstar?"

"With my own hands," Arianne answers, grimly.

"Most impressive. And wise to bring the sword. The boy insists now that I ally with you. I myself am not so inclined. But if I were, what would you have me do?"

"You know much about me and my friends, Harlan. But two can play this game. I know none of your men are friends of Cersei Lannister. She wants you to die on her battlefield, fighting a war she cannot win. A noble death. But a poor one. I, however, would have you only stay put. Wait until the war is won. And then join Lord Tarly and I in crowning the true king of Westeros. With the North, Reach, Dorne and Stormlands together, none will stand in our way."

"And yet there is the matter of the bastard," Harlan smirks. "The Stormlands are not united. We have our own little war on our hands."

Finally, Sam finds the nerve to speak. "Ally with us and we will ensure your new titles will remain unchallenged."

"Yes, my titles. You see, Tarly, while loyalty to you may be fluid, it is not to me. I swore an oath to the Throne. I could, perhaps, concede to this Gendry for a time. He could lead as he see fits, a bastard has no honor. But I fear the boy has already played his hand. A challenge to lead the stormlords. He is clearly noble to make such an offer. But he will lose. And when he does, I will be forced to deal with traitors as my oaths command."

* * *

**Euron's Chambers**

Qyburn steels his nerves as he approaches the king's door. He does not think Euron would dare strike him, but his braindead guards, Boros and Preston, amble along behind him, just in case. His birds have watched the room night and day. Many serving wenches have come and gone, but Lady Leyla Hightower has not departed.

His old hand wraps harshly thrice upon the heavy door. He waits for only a moment before he hears footsteps nearing. The door swings open to reveal his king, naked before him. Qyburn can see the bed behind him, the sheets rising and falling over Leyla Hightower's round gut.

"Whatoyawant…" Euron slurs, mind blurred by sleep and drink.

"Your grace, we have spoken before about your discretion in these matters. Your wife the queen is a jealous woman, and…"

"And she can take all the lovers she wants once my son comes," Euron seizes the Hand's collar, teeth clenched in a nightshade-colored sneer. "Leave the matters of my bed to me, old man!" At that, he slams the door shut.

Sighing, the Hand turns away. The night is still young, and he has many visits left to make.

* * *

**White Sword Tower**

It is late at night, but Lord Commander Balon Swann is not asleep. Instead, he sits in full armor, hunched over a table, reading the White Book by candlelight. He has stopped upon Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer's page unfinished. He hears the door creak open as Qyburn enters.

"What do you right of a man like him," he murmurs, without looking up.

"Whatever you please," the Hand answers. "You are the Lord Commander." This does not seem a comfort to Balon. "I am sure you know why I'm here."

"Stonehelm," Balon grumbles. "My father is dead and my brother is a traitor. Do not doubt my duty to the throne, Lord Hand. Were my brother himself to stand against me, I would strike him down without thinking to defend the queen."

"I fear she may not yet trust your honor as much as you proclaim it."

"There have, perhaps, been mistakes that have cost me her faith," Balon glares. "Trust that I will do whatever I must to redeem it."

* * *

**Genna's Chambers**

Genna Lannister is moments away from falling asleep when Qyburn intrudes upon her peace.

"What in the seven hells do you need of me at this hour?"

"I have concerns, my lady, that are best shared while the castle slumbers. I fear it may no longer be safe for you here in the city. The war draws nearer, and the queen's favor has turned against you."

"Where would I go?" Genna sighs, collapsing heavily into a chair. "My home is in the hands of the enemy. My husband and sons are dead. I have family left scattered about, but none that I care for. We are just two old souls, my friend, burning out sooner than later. Our place is here, to defend the realm, whatever tune my niece's mood may blow."

Reluctantly, Qyburn turns to leave, but stops once more.

"And the Golden Company? Before they left, I spoke to Harry Strickland. He has Aegon's sword. _Blackfyre_."

"You think Homeless Harry Stickland wants to take the throne?" Genna laughs and climbs into bed. "Perhaps it is you who should retire, Lord Hand. The Blackfyre line is dead. There are enough enemies at our gates. There is no need to conjure up ghosts."

* * *

**Qyburn's Laboratory**

At last, Qyburn returns to his laboratories, deep beneath the Keep. Since the burning of the Tower of the Hand, he has slept here, in a small chamber set aside for his simple needs. But first, young Alys is waiting with another of the "little birds" - Tom Blackbottom. Qyburn shakes his head, disappointed.

"Did you really think I wouldn't discover this, Tom? My own birds have been disappearing, abandoning my work and flittering off to gods know where. I know Cersei has been speaking with you."

"I ain't tellin' nothin'," the boy looks away. "Queen's order."

Alys' dagger jumps to her hand, and then to Tom's throat.

"If we're good at one thing, it's keepin' secrets," she hisses. "The queen doesn't need to know you told us. But we already know you're hiding something."

"Wildfire!" the boy spits out. "The queen wants as much as she had at the Blackwater, hidden all throughout the city."

"Damn it all," Qyburn turns away. "The mad king come again… Tom, Boros and Preston are going to take you to the cells now. If you wish to return, you will tell me everywhere you've hidden the wildfire."

As the two undead knights begin to drag the panicked boy away, he is already shouting out locations. But Qyburn only trudges haggardly away into his chamber.

"Alys, fetch me sweetwine, please," he sighs, removing his worn sandals and collapsing onto his musty bed. Finally, he allows his eyes to close and wishes that the drink will be enough to carry him off to sleep.

_Heavy is the head that wears the crown_, he thinks as he tears off his Hand pin and tosses it away. _Whoever said that was a lying bastard. The crown is heavy. But it isn't the wearer who bears the weight._

* * *

**The Black Cells**

Ser Ilyn Payne had always looked half-dead. Now, in the white cloak and armor of the Queensguard, he looks more spectral than ever. But Cersei is here in the dungeons to see someone who is even less alive. By the slightest torchlight, she sees the huddled, gaunt form of Ellaria Sand, twisted away in a corner. Nearly a skeleton with eyes, skin pulled taught as gossamer over her bones, she barely looks up as Cersei enters. The decayed corpse of her daughter still rests against the opposing wall.

"Hello, my friend…" Cersei purrs, sinisterly. Ellaria turns to her with an animalistic hiss.

"Finally come to gloat?" her voice rasps, like the creaking of a rusty hinge.

"No," Cersei sits on a stool brought by Ser Ilyn, carefully out of reach of Ellaria's chains. "I have come to talk. There is no one I can trust, no one in this city. But I must talk to someone, or I'll go mad."

"You are mad!"

"No, no, no!" Cersei laughs. "I'm the sanest woman in Westeros. Just look at you. Look how far you've fallen. Some men once dared to say you were more beautiful than me. I want to see you like this now, to remember how I won."

""You win nothing," Ellaria smiles through rotted teeth. "The dragons will tear these walls down and I will laugh. Then I'll finally be free!" At that, she lunges. Shrieking, Cersei topples from the stool. Ser Ilyn rushes to her side as Ellaria collapses from the effort. He drags the queen from the cell, slamming the door on the hoarse laughter. But as they flee back up into the Keep, two eyes watch them go. And the Imp smiles.

* * *

**The Gates of the Moon**

Sansa stands before the door to Robin Arryn's chambers, alone. Two of the Order of Winged Knights had been at guard. The first had been lured away by Mycah to bet on a fight in the yard. The other had been pulled into bed by Wynafryd Manderly. And now, as she slides the door open, Sansa is alone with her cousin. She finds Robin awake, the shutters of his balcony upon, sitting atop the wall, his legs dangling out into nothing.

"Are you here to kill me, cousin?" he asks, without looking at her.

"No!" she gasps, treading forward more quickly, but more softly, until she can see his face, looking out over the mountains. "I only want to talk. As family. We can do that, can't we?"

"I miss the Moon Door," he whispers, not seeming to have heard her. "I wish I could throw all of the Red Men through it. That would put their god's fires out."

Sansa chuckles, though she knows she oughtn't.

"What are you going to do about Jon?" he suddenly asks, abruptly. This time, he notices her shock. "I may be weak, but I'm not stupid. You knew first, but Lord Royce is still my bannerman, no matter what he thinks of me. So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Robin's eyebrow begins to twitch. "Our cousin is the true heir to the Iron Throne, and you don't know what to do about it?"

"Jon doesn't want to be king." Sansa sits beside him. "And he loves Daenerys."

"And what happens if she takes the throne? I've heard stories of what the red priests did in Gulltown to my men who refused to raise her banners."

"I believe she is good. She wants to bring change to Westeros, change that we need."

"I don't like change," Robin shakes, childishly. "I don't like fire. The dragons are in my dreams now. And in my dreams, I die, just like they always said I would."

"You don't really want to be a king, Robin," Sansa sighs. "You just want to be safe."

"Will you keep me safe, cousin? Will you keep the dragons away?"

Sansa has no answer.

* * *

**The Red Keep**

Qyburn watches carefully as Boros and Preston load his small trunks and field supplies onto a wagon. The unnatural guards would not travel well, he believed, so he had chosen six of his personal guard for his company. But one more member would join the party, and none more surprised by his inclusion than the man himself – Tyrion Lannister, at last stripped of his fool's motley, in real clothes once again.

"The queen will not like you taking him," Genna muses.

"She has other matters to worry about," Qyburn answers. "Even without his tongue, his mind is a powerful weapon. We will need our greatest minds at work together if we are to win this battle."

"You do not think the Golden Company will succeed?"

"I believe they will try. I believe they will do what damage they can. And my birds follow behind them to feed on their scraps. But no, I do not think they will win the war. I doubt they even want to, but you know of my concerns. Until Daenerys Targaryen and her followers are dead, we will not know peace."

"Then may the Seven be with you," Genna bows and turns to leave as Qyburn climbs into his carriage and Boros roughly throws Tyrion in with the trunks.

"I'm happy for your prayers," Qyburn calls back. "And if any other gods care to pass their favor on us, I promise it will not be rejected."

At that, the carriage is off, trundling down towards the gate to the Goldroad, already packed full of panicked smallfolk desparate for safety within the city walls. As he watches them clamor to get in, Qyburn shudders to think of the queen's wildfire.

_If we do not succeed_, he thinks, _the city may be the least safe land in Westeros_.

* * *

**Daenerys' Camp**

As Daenerys returns to her tent for the night, she is surprised to find Zatarra and Eres waiting for her with Jorah, darkness in their eyes.

"What is the matter?" she asks.

"I saw in a vision a hundred ravens carrying dark words across the land, spreading blood and fire in their wake," Zattara breathes ominously.

"What does that mean?"

"Today, we learned the vision came true," Eres answers. "Ser Osgood Grafton received word from Gulltown that a missive has been sent to all noble houses. We believed Jon Snow's secret was safe. We were wrong."

"The Princess Arianne Martell and Lord Samwell Tarly have pledged that they hold proof that Jon Snow is Aemon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and heir to the throne," Zatarra continues. "They call on all the land to acknowledge him as the true king."

"Does… does he know?" Daenerys stammers, thoughts racing like a hurricane in her head.

"What do you think?" Zatarra steps closer. "My queen, love is a treacherous thing. You were born into a glorious destiny, to bring freedom to this world. But the old ways do not die easily. Sacrifices must be made."

"No!" Daenerys pushes the priestess away. "Jon would never lie to me!" She storms from the tent, back out into the cold. The Queensguard on watch move to follow, but she bids them stay, sprinting across the camp to Jon's tent and rushing past the Northern guards. She finds him within, half-dressed, warming himself by a brazier.

"Is something wrong?" he rises quickly, seeing her distress.

"They know," she says simply, seizing his bare arms. He needs no further explanation.

"How?"

"A Dornish princess and a Tarly lord sent a missive across the kingdoms. I don't know how they know, but they do. And now everyone does."

"Sam…" Jon is stunned, collapsing onto his bed.

"You know him?" Daenerys slowly begins to back away, worrying that her worst fears may yet come true. If Jon knows this lord…

"He was my closest friend at the Wall. He left for the Citadel, and that was the last I heard from him. But he's a good man."

"I killed his family, Jon. They fought my armies and I had them killed. Now he wants revenge. The Dornish, too, they've never stopped hating dragons. They want to destroy me."

"No, Sam isn't like that. He's not vengeful…"

"Then what do you call this? He's destroyed my claim to the throne!"

"No," Jon suddenly rises. He gently places his hands on her shoulders and pulls her in. In a moment, all their fights and distrust seems to fade away as she looks into his eyes again. "No more war. The day we take the capital, we will marry. And that will be the end of it."

"Are you sure…" she hesitates. "You said you wanted…"

"You are what I want. I don't care who my father was. I lived my life defining myself by men who came before me. No more. I know who I am. I know what I want. And who I want to be with." He kisses her deeply. Enthralled in the moment, their legs give out beneath them and they topple together onto the bed. For only a moment, Jon pulls away to look into her eyes. She whispers into his ear.

"We'll rule together, it is meant to be. Our fathers left this world in ashes. We will grow a garden here. And it will be beautiful." Then his lips meet hers again, and she never wants to let go.

* * *

**Summerhall**

Arianne straightens her mask, feeling it slip from the slick mist coating her face. She sits beside Sam and their bannermen, beneath an awning. The center of Summerhall's ruined great keep has been cleared for the challenge, and a crowd has already gathered, despite the darkening sky.

"There's a storm coming," Sarella observes. "And a big one."

"A bad omen," Mallora Hightower mutters.

"Indeed," Arianne crosses her fingers, staring down intently at the crowd. "But for whom?" She watches carefully. Gendry Baratheon has been dressed in proud armor with his great antlered-helm. He certainly looks imposing by himself. But as he steps forward into the ring and Bonifer Hasty himself says a prayer, he is dwarfed by his opponent. A surprise to none, Lord Dondarrion has named Ser Balerion Horpe as his champion. Two heads taller than Gendry, he shuns armor for his unchanging, tattered white shroud, his massive sword in hand, as imposing a weapon as the legendary warhammer.

Then thunder roars, and the fight begins.

With the ringing of steel comes the rain. Light drops at first, then harder and faster as the field turns to mud. Arianne is not close enough to see the details of the fight, the blood and sweat she knows is being spilled, but she can see enough. The boy is holding admirably, even as an early blow removes an antler from his helm. But from the start, he is on the defensive against the larger knight.

_This is no warrior_ Arianne thinks. _The gods themselves would have to lay hands to give him a victory._

Hammer and sword slam into each other, then into the mud, as Gendry tries to escape the range of Balerion's blows while trying to land just one of his own. Arianne can see Sam's eyes bulging with tension, his white knuckles grasping at his knees.

"He has to win!" Sam shouts, jostling Mallora's shoulder.

Suddenly, Gendry lands a hit. The sword is gone from Balerion's hands! But the knight moves like a white blur, grabbing hold of the remaining antler and wrenching him down into the mud. On the ground, the hammer is useless, and the two men are wrestling, grasping at each other until Gendry pries himself free and stumbles to his feet. But Balerion rises faster, and hits the bastard on the back of the skull with his own helmet.

Cheers ring out as Gendry hits the mud and crawls desperately towards the hammer as Balerion goes for his sword. Limping from a blow to the knee, the great knight draws nearer and nearer, as Gendry's shaking hands wrap tight round the hammer. The sword comes down as its target rises to meet it with a deafening scream. But no man hears the scream, for instead they hear thunder and are blinded by a furious, brilliant burst of lighting shot down from the maddening sky!

When their vision clears, they see Balerion on his back, his white robes charred black, smoke rising. And Gendry Baratheon, hammer in hand, stands over him.

"The gods have spoken!" Ser Bonifer shouts. "He commands the storms!" The crowd erupts with shouts of terror and awe. Arianne cranes her neck to try and catch a glimpse of Harlan's reaction, but she cannot find him. She does, however, see Mallora Hightower. And, for a moment, she swears she sees smoke breathing from the madwoman's nose, and scorching around her eyes…

* * *

**The Gates of the Moon**

Brienne finds Sansa sitting in the godswood – a sparse maze of stone sculptures and sparse mountain flowers encircling a tiny, warped wierwood, stunted in the shallow soil. Behind it lies a breathtaking tableau of the mountains and the night sky beyond.

"I don't think I've ever seen so many stars," she murmurs in awe, taking a seat beside her lady. "You can't see any in the yard, the Grafton's fires burn too bright."

"They say the night is dark and full of terrors," Sansa answers. "But it's now that I feel at peace. I think I can hear them sometimes. My father's gods. But only whispers on the wind, I know not what they say." As she turns, the stars glisten off tears on her cheeks. "What must I do, Brienne? Mycah says to stay, but he wants to protect me. Wynafryd says to leave, but she wants to find her betrothed. What is right? How do I know? I ruled in Winterfell for a time, but this…this is the fate of all seven kingdoms. It's so… heavy."

"I cannot make that decision for you, my lady. That is your place. But, I must confess, I too have a secret. I have my own reasons to go south." Sansa is clearly confused. "Before Ser Jaime died, I made him a vow. I swore to save his child."

"His child…" Sansa is confused. "But that means Cersei…"

"I know," Brienne struggle to find words. "I know it sounds mad, but I made an oath. Daenerys and Jon will kill her the moment they reach the city!"

"I know Jon would never…"

"Do you? If we can reach her first, if we can get to Cersei, I can keep my vow and we can stop this fight before any more lives are lost!"

"It's impossible!"

"If we meet with these southern lords, who knows what may be? My father still holds great sway in their ranks!"

For a long moment, Sansa is silent. She looks up to the mountains, the stars and the moon. The wind caresses her skin. In an instant, she hears the voice of her father and mother. And for the first time in so long, she is not cold.

"Ready your things, Brienne," she commands at last. "It's time we end this war."

* * *

**Daenerys Camp**

Night has fallen in the camp of the dragons, though nothing so resembling to darkness ever penetrates the blazing torches the ever light these tents in the name of R'Hllor. All is quiet, save for the priestess Zatarra, walking slowly away, past the perimeter guard. Noticing her departure, Eres, the armor of the Fiery Hand laid over her robes.

"Where are you going?" she calls out, and Zatarra finally stops. The bald woman slowly turns around, red robes blowing in the night wind. Eres shivers in her armor, noticing how far she has been lead from the comforting torches.

_The night is dark and full of terrors._

"I go to my destiny, dear one," Zatarra smiles. "The Lord has shown me. Tonight is the night I leave this earth."

"By whose hand?"

"You will see soon enough."

"We have to warn the queen!" Eres tries to drag the priestess back to the camp

"No. Our queen is the Lord's chosen. Azor Ahai must be tested by fire to take the throne and raise of the Empire of Dawn."

"But how?" Eres pleads. "R'Hllor does not speak to me as he does to you!"

"I have served my role in this song, dear girl. There are others, more powerful than I, that you must lead her to if she is to fulfill her destiny." Zatarra turns to leave again, but Eres grabs at her robes.

"No! You have to tell me more!" she shouts. Slowly, Zatarra turns back and shakes her head. And then, with a jolt, her mouth drops open, and a bloody quarrel emerges with a sickening thunk. Eres, losing her stoic nature, shrieks as the priestess drops to the ground, dead.

And then the night is alive with deafening warhorns.

In his tent, Jon leaps up in bed, Daenerys at his side. He scrambles to get dressed as his guards rush into the room along with Ser Jorah and two of the Queensguard.

"What's happening?" Daenerys demands, frantically.

"We're under attack," Jorah reports. "We know not by whom." As if on cue, the thundering horns are joined by a different sound – one known only by a few Westerosi.

"Elephants. The Golden Company," Black Spot murmurs.

"Fetch me my halberd!" Daenerys demands as she helps Jon into his armor. Dressed first, he does not wait, and sprints out of the tent, _Longclaw_ drawn. He emerges to find the camp in chaos, men rushing to arms to take defenses against the sudden foes emerging from the night. He sees dark figures in the light of the scattered fires. A volley of burning arrows rains down from the sky, setting light to the tents, and he charges.

More men come in behind him to charge into the hazy smoke, feet crunching on ice. But as they near, weapons, ready, the face that emerges from the smoke is familiar - Grey Worm.

"Stop, stop!" Jon howls over the warhorns. "What's happening? Have you seen the enemy?"

"I saw men on horse in glistening armor!" Grey Worm points. "They were rushing the dragons!"

At once, Jon sprints off, with Grey Worm close behind. They run through the burning camp, trying to break up blind skirmishes, but with only one destination in mind. Soon, the dragons are in sight. Six bowmen surround them, weapons drawn. Jon attacks without hesitation, cutting down the first archer with a single blow. Grey Worm kills another just as quickly, and Jon a third, but then the fourth draws a sword.

Offguard, Jon slips on a patch of ice and hits the ground hard. His enemy turns to strike down, but slips as well, falling atop Jon's sword. But his gilded helm lands heavily on his face. He feels his nose crack and blood blinds his eyes. Grappling on the ground, he struggles to get his bearings. That's when he sees them, scattered on the earth – weirwood arrows. Looking up, he cannot see Grey Worm, but he can see the dragons. And before them, a boy, just a squire.

"Get back!" Jon shouts. But the boy turns and smiles. His white teeth glisten in the dark, and Jon can see his hair, dyed garish blue. He raises his arms and takes another step forward. As he does, Drogon and Rhaegal let out the most bloodcurdling roar Jon has ever heard from them. Not a roar of strength, but one of terror. And then the fire comes, burning out in heavy streams as the frenzied beasts take wing, ripping their great chains up out of the ground. Fire is everywhere, everywhere but where the boy stands. He smiles at Jon again, then disappears into the smoke.

But the dragons fly on, and Jon can only watch in horror as they descend over the camp. And then everything is flame.

"This is chaos," Jorah shouts as he and Daenerys finally emerge into the burning carnage. "The men are turning on each other, they cannot see the enemy. We have to leave the camp and find the archers!" Four of the Queensguard peel off at his command. As they leave, he turns back to his queen, only to see seven riders, flaming torches in hand, cutting a wide swath through the middle of the camp, straight towards her.

"Dany!" he shouts with all his breath, drawing _Heartsbane_. But she does not flee. Instead, she plants herself and, with a heavy swing of her halberd, dismounts one of the riders and buries its point in his neck before he can recover. Jorah moves to run to her, but the riders have turned around. In passing, a sword cuts down, hitting deep into his shoulder. He topples forward, but grabs hold of the rider's leg, pulling them both down together.

Icy blades of grass jab Jorah's face as he hits the earth. His enemy's sword lies before him, and the sight freezes him – Valyrian steel, with a dragon hilt and ruby eyes. Then a cold, metal boot kicks the side of his head and he rolls away to grab his own sword and face his foe – General Harry Strickland, in golden armor, _Blackfyre_ in hand.

"For Daenerys!" Jorah shouts, and attacks. He has never felt Valyrian steel on Valyrian steel until this moment. The first strike seems to burst with dark power and a blinding shower of sparks erupts. For a moment, he is in awe – a moment of weakness. Strickland strikes, landing a quick blow to Jorah's side. And they duel, their legendary swords bursting with light at every clash, slowly circling, pacing back and forth. But Jorah's eyes are not on Strickland. He takes every chance to catch a glimpse of his queen, fighting on her own amidst the chaos, halberd burst into flames with a cry to R'Hllor.

And then a jabbing pain in his side. He looks down to see _Blackfyre_ in his side. The sword pulls free and he stumbles. Strickland hits again, slicing across his back. _Heartsbane_ drops to the ground and Jorah falls, face-first. Calmly, Strickland sheaths his own sword and picks up Jorah's, preparing to finish off the crippled knight. Then he hears Daenerys' scream.

At last she has seen them, and is running through the battle, two Queensguard and Eres at her side. And so Strickland turns, seizing the nearest horse to ride away, disappearing back into the night as quickly as his men had come. Daenerys does not give chase, dropping to her knees beside Jorah. The last thing he sees before the black comes are her blue eyes. A fire burns within them.

* * *

_AN: Sorry these last few have been so long. Hope you've liked them, I just have a lot of ground to cover before the final battles._


	31. A War of Gods

**The Kingswood**

The barren branches of the great forest tremble as the massive army nears – the combined might of the Stormlands, Dorne and the Marches of the Reach. As they come to stop by a forest stream, Samwell Tarly topples down from his horse. He has never ridden this far for so long before. But he dare not take a carriage, fearing the scorn of his lordly peers.

"We'll make camp here," Princess Arianne commands.

"We're meant to march on the capital," Gendry Baratheon protests – the young lord is now ostensibly the leader of their number, after besting Harlan Dondarrion's champion in single combat.

"Unless you've devised a way to transport us three days journey overnight, that will not be happening today, my lord," Sarella smirks, leaping nimbly from her horse, bow in hand.

"Once we make camp, we will plan our next move," Arianne assures Gendry. "Until then, enjoy the peace. You've earned it."

Sarella departs to hunt, Arianne and Sam to find the other lords, leaving Gendry alone. Until Meraxes Horpe arrives on a pale, shaggy horse, carrying the banner of her house.

"We're making camp here," he commands.

"Watch yourself lordling," the woman's lips part in a snarl. "Whatever witchcraft you used to cripple my brother, my family is still sworn to Harlan Dondarrion, not to you. You'd be best to remember that."

Her boots spurn her horse away, and Gendry watches as white beast and rider blend into the snowy terrain. He shivers, and remounts. Winter has never felt so cold. He needs friendly faces to warm himself.

* * *

**Tumbler's Falls**

The Oldtown army has made camp around the small village where the Goldroad crosses the treacherous waters of the Blackwater Rush. The Hightower banners now fly high over the town square, where a small inn has been taken over by the lords as their command center.

In all her time since leaving Daenerys, Missandei of Naath has never felt so afraid. Everywhere she goes, she receives deathly glares from men and women who know it is her queen's army that burns a path across the countryside towards them. Ser Argilac has not left her side, and she is rarely out of the company of Lady Alysanne and Lord Arthur Ambrose. They are all together now, waiting to begin their plans for the battle to come.

Heavy footsteps mark Ser Garth Hightower's entrance. "The Queen's Hand has arrived!"

"Qyburn?" Missandei remembers the old man from her time in Oldtown. Making her way to the yard outside, Argilac close behind, she sees men unloading supplies, supervised by the Hand. Qyburn could easily be mistaken for a servant, she thinks, having traded the fine clothes he wore in the city for simple grey robes.

"Lady Missandei," he bows politely. "It is a great pleasure for our paths to cross again. So long, of course, you're on our side."

"I am in service of House Hightower, my lord."

"I'm glad to hear that." Qyburn steps forward to head inside, and it is then that Missandei sees a man she long thought dead. Tyrion Lannister hobbles down from the cart. With tears of joy, she runs to the little man, wrapping her arms around him in a warm embrace.

"I was sure they killed you!" she gasps, laughing. But he does not answer. She steps back, and sees darkness in his eyes, and tears. But no joy. His mouth opens, and only a hollow, empty rasp comes out, dropping him to his knees.

Missandei falls beside him as he desperately tries to force out creaking words. It is then that she sees the scars within his mouth, and the hole where a tongue should be. Gagging and recoiling, she turns back to Qyburn with a fury. _The stories were true, after all._

"Not by my hand, I swear," he turns out his palms in supplication. "I have done my best to preserve him. A mind is a terrible thing to waste."

Picking himself to his feet, Tyrion lifts his hand. Slowly, Missandei takes it. And together they follow Qyburn in to counsel.

* * *

**Red Army Camp**

Lord Flement Brax is chained within a darkened tent among a handful of fellow noble prisoners, including his bitter old septon. He looks up as a sliver of light and rush of cold air declares the arrival of Varys. Flement wishes to rise to strike the eunuch, but has not the strength.

"You lied," he spits.

"My lord, I beg your pardon if you think I have deceived you," Varys bows.

"You said you would protect us if we surrendered," Flement gestures to his companions. "And yet here we are, in chains, waiting for the moment men in red will take us away to burn."

"I'm doing all I can," Varys protests weakly.

"You're afraid," Flement realizes. "You didn't flinch when my uncle had you in chains and wanted your head. Why now?"

At first, it does not seem that Varys will answer. Finally he speaks. "It was not like this, when I left. But this Red God, its fires have consumed them all. This is an army of zealots now. I cannot reason with such men, for they have abandoned sound logic for a voice from the flames. I heard that voice once, when I was just a boy. And the words it spoke have haunted me ever since. Now, I feel the heat on the back of my neck. I fear the voice has finally caught me. That is fear, my lord. No man. Something far worse."

For a long while, the two men only stare at each other, solemnly. Eventually, Flement speaks again. "Then at least let me see my son."

From the prisoner's tent to the Hand's housing in a commandeered farmhouse is a short but shivering walk for Varys. He finds Lord Damion Lannister speaking to young Robert Brax, with the Red Priest-Knight Forley Prestor watching.

"Beg pardon, my lord, I did not mean to intrude," he bows.

"No matter," Damion rises to greet him. "We're done here."

Prestor leads the lad away. As he passes, Varys sees deep shadows under his eyes and burns around the corners of his mouth and hands. The left side of his head has been shaved and branded with a crude emblem of flame.

"What have you done to him?" Varys stares wide-eyed at the man he once found so reasonable.

"Me?" Damion shrugs. "I've done nothing. I leave the work of the Lord to Prestor, Crakehall and their kind. They are… converting the lad, I believe they call it. He'll be loyal to our queen and god by the time they're done with him."

"Surely you can't think…"

"Lord Varys, I have not forgotten who you are. Dwell on your own actions before you cast stones at these priests."

"Of course," Varys nods, nervously. "We all serve the will of our queen and R'Hllor."

"Don't play games with me, eunuch. You are no more a religious man than I. We can be truthful, can't we?"

"Of course, my lord. I was only wondering, perhaps, if young Robert might be allowed to see his father. It may spark a change of heart."

"In Flement? We have his son, we have no use for him. He will burn with the rest. He'll see his son then, no sooner." Varys turns to leave. "Another moment! With all that has happened, have you been informed of the fate of Petyr Baelish. You knew him, did you not?"

"I heard he was executed by Sansa Stark on the walls of Winterfell."

"Indeed. In the end, all his schemes and wit could not save him. The world is changing. We must adapt to survive, or else we shall all lose our heads, one way or another."

As Varys exits, one of Damion's guards enters.

"Lord Hand, one of the prisoners wishes to speak to you."

"Send them in." Damion watches as the guards present the old septon of Hornvale, his fine white robes now stained and torn. The sight seems comedic to Damion, he had never cared for this kind.

"I pray, listen, my lord," the old priest begs. "I know you do not fear the Seven. And I shall never blaspheme their name. But I come to you with a bargain. Surely you would trade a heretic's life to burn a traitor in your midst?"

* * *

**Daenerys' Camp**

Ser Jorah Mormont lies half-asleep, surrounded by blazing braziers, his wounds tightly wrapped. Two of his Queensguard, Black Spot and Kimbo, stand guard over him. A burst of cold wind stirs him as Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow enter, followed closely by Eres and two more Queensguard.

"Will he live?" Jon asks.

"Yes, by the Lord's grace," Eres answers.

"And what of the army?" Daenerys is unwilling to look away from her stricken guardian.

"Near half our number slain or missing," Jon says, painfully. "Grey Worm and Lord Cerwyn among them. We fear they've been carried back the capital. The children are missing, too. And still no word from Sansa or Gendry."

"We will rendezvous with my Hand's armies as planned," Daenerys commands. "You will take Rhaegal, ensure that the fleet arrives on schedule. Then find your sister and the Baratheons and ensure they will be prepared."

"At once, my love," Jon begins to bow, but Daenerys stops him with a kiss. He turns to leave and Daenerys kneels beside Jorah. The others exit, one by one, until the queen and her guardian are alone.

"Last night I had a dream," she whispers in her ear. "I saw the walls of the city torn down and castles crumble. I dreamt of Drogon's fires raining down to melt the chains off a hundred thousand slaves. And from that molten iron rose a new throne, more glorious than Aegon's. A new kingdom, for a new world. And they chanted our names, mine and Jon's. The whole world, finally free in a summer that never ends."

"You used to dream of a small house with a red door," Jorah coughs, sadly. "And lemon trees. You could still have that. You don't have to lose anything else."

"I was selfish then," she places a warm hand on his bare, scarred chest. "I only dreamed of what I wanted. But now I've seen the truth. My destiny is to free these people, all people, from the bonds they cannot even see. And to do what is right requires sacrifice."

"But how much?" he grasps her hand with faint strength, his eyes and mind blurred. It seems as if he barely recognizes her.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I know," she replies, soft as a dove, as his head slips back onto his pillow.

"You used to dream. Of lemon trees…"

* * *

**Near the Camp**

Meera Reed leads the small band of lordlings and young ladies through the light layer of ice and snow covering the ground, taking care to cover their tracks as they creep along. There are two armies in these parts, and it will not do to be found by either of them. The oldest among them, lanky Hoster Blackwood, is little help keeping the smaller ones calm and quiet – he impaled his foot in the escape and has been moaning in pain all the way since.

Hearing a rustling in the briar ahead, Meera hisses at her ramshackle troupe for silence. Stolen spear in hand, she sneaks silently around the bushes until she comes up behind five children, as small as the ones following her.

Suddenly one turns, and sees her before she can duck to cover. In an instant, a knife is in the boy's hand, and he lets out a blood-curdling cry, charging her. Meera knocks him down with an easy swing of the spear's staff, but the others all have knives now, too.

"Who are you?" the leader, a muddy, dark-skinned boy yells, his voice cracking.

"Just a very lost crannogman," Meera cautiously slides the spearpoint back and forth, creating an invisible line between her and the devilish children.

"Do you know where the dragon queen's camp is?"

Meera hesitates. "What do you want with her?"

A girl, younger but taller than the boy steps up. "Fire and blood."

Looking back over her shoulder to where her own wards wait, Meera thinks for a little while, never taking her eyes off the daggers. It does not take long to make up her mind.

"I'll take you to her."

* * *

**The Kingswood**

For such a time of war, there is yet peace all throughout the Kingswood. All seems calm, save for the tent of Gendry Baratheon, where the young lord is in a heated argument with Arya Stark, as his sister and Davos look on helplessly.

"I don't need you to tell me what to do!" Gendry points an angry finger at Arya. "Every decision I make, you question!"

"That's because you're not making your own decisions!" Arya shouts back. "You just do whatever your bannermen tell you. They're manipulating you!"

"A good lord listens to his advisors," Davos interjects.

"A good lord listens to wisdom and then makes up his own mind! You've been pushed around from the moment we arrived in Storm's End."

"What do you know of being a lord anyway?" Gendry throws up his arms in frustration. "Who taught you how to lead? The Hound?"

"My father!" Arya feels the wolfblood boiling in her veins. Instinctively, she moves to strike him. Mya intervenes, throwing her back on the ground. Gendry stops the fight from going further, urging the others out of the tent. Exhausted, he seizes a large pitcher of ale and begins to sloppily pour it down his throat, the sour drink spilling down his face. Arya, dusting herself off, grabs the pitcher for herself.

"I'm sorry for fighting," she says, slowly calming. "It's embarrassing, like we're still just children."

Gendry collapses onto the soft bed they had carried with them from Storm's End. "We never got a chance to grow up. Not really."

"No," Arya sighs, putting down the pitcher. Her mood improved, she slides onto Gendry's lap and pulls his lips close, her hands pulling at the strings of his breeches. "But we can pretend for now."

"No!" He suddenly pushes her away. "You made a fool of me in front of everyone before the challenge! You told them all I couldn't win!"

"It was foolish!"

"You have to trust me!" Gendry stands, struggling to restring his laces.

"You could have died! This would have all been for nothing!"

"But I won!"

"Only because a fucking lightning bolt fell out of the sky onto that idiot knight!"

"Eloquently put, princess. And very true." They turn to realize that Princess Arianne has silently entered the tent and is watching them through her steel mask. Gendry gasps as his breeches drop to the floor. "And who do you think sent that lightning?"

"The…the…the gods, I suppose," Gendry stammers.

Arianne laughs. "You speak like Bonifer Hasty, boy, but you sound like Flea Bottom. I know you're cleverer than that. The gods did not answer your prayers. But there are others, with great powers…"

"The witch," Arya glared. "From Oldtown."

"You owe your life to Mallora Hightower," Arianne nods, as she takes a seat, pushing the reeking ale far away from her.

"Why?"

"Because I need your help to put the true king on the throne."

"Daenerys Targaryen is the true queen," Gendry protests.

"No," she shakes her head. "Have you not heard? You've been in the field so long... Aemon Targaryen, third-born son of Prince Rhaegar? You know him better as Jon Snow."

Arya gasps. "That's impossible! Jon's my brother."

"Oh it's very possible. And very true. And now that we've established what we owe each other, what are we going to do about it?"

* * *

**The Frosted Fury **

The waves softly rock beneath the hull of the small Manderly vessel as the coast of the Kingswood comes into sight. Sansa lays on her back beneath the stars, hand clasped around a necklace – a silver chain wrapped around a carved weirwood twig from the Gates of the Moon – and listens to the night. She hears steel boots thudding on the deck. Looking up, Mycah Manderly's face eclipses the moon.

"Can you not sleep, my lady?"

"I've never sailed for so long," she answers as he lies down beside her. "It's difficult."

"For you, maybe," his white teeth seem to sparkle in the moonlight. "But not for me. My father took me sailing even before I could walk. He would sing me the songs of the sea, how to navigate by the stars, and which stars marked the heroes of our ancestors."

He gently guides her hand to point at a small cluster of stars.

"That's Garth the Greenhand, He taught the First Men to farm. And that's Lord Winston, who led our family north after our exile."

Sansa laughs. "My mother told me that was the Fisher King, of Misty Isle." She sees Mycah's confusion. "Maybe that's what makes them so special. They can be whatever we want them to be." For a moment, there is silence, just the waves and wind.

"This is the furthest I've ever been from home," Mycah speaks. "After my mother died, I wanted to sail away to Essos. Everything in White Harbor reminded me of her. But father wouldn't let me. He wouldn't let any of us out of his sight. But that didn't save Mycroft."

"I'm sorry," Sansa takes ahold of his hand. She finds five small stars clustered together. "We can say that's him. Mycroft the Innocent."

Mycah smiles, and holds her hand tighter. "Then those can be us."

"Which ones?" she asks, but he does not answer, only softly pulling her head closer until they kiss.

* * *

**The Red Keep**

The queen sits alone atop the Iron Throne, the hair beneath her crown disheveled, her hands cut and bloody from the sharp blades beneath her, making her way into the seat grows more perilous with each day of her pregnancy. Her mind is lost in the past. But in this memory, it is not Robert on the throne, but her, young and perfect, her brother at her side. The doors swing open, and she sees the a white cloak.

"Jaime? Jaime!"

"No, you grace!" Ser Balon Swann shouts, rushing to stop Cersei from falling. "It's me!" She leans heavily on him, leaving bloody handprints on his white armor. "The Golden Company has returned! Have you not heard the bells?"

Cersei stops to listen. Slowly she recognizes the sound. How long had they been ringing?

"Is she dead? Have they slain the dragon queen and Ned Stark?"

"Ned Stark is long dead, your grace," Balon is confused as Cersei limps away. "I do not know of Daenerys' fate."

Slowly, she turns back to him, fury in her eyes.

"Do not speak that name in my presence, Lord Commander! I must have your trust, or I will replace you with another! With Ser Osmund, perhaps…" Osmund Kettleblack was dead as well, but Balon drops to his knees regardless, head cowed. Cersei approaches, curiously.

"Your grace…" he stammers. "I must make a confession. I have failed you."

* * *

**The Black Cells**

Once again, the light of a flickering torch blinds Ellaria Sand as Cersei Lannister sits before her in her cells. Ser Ilyn Payne stands, silent as ever, one foot in the pile of dust and bne that had once been her daughter.

"Are you really here?" she rasps out, her eyes struggling to focus through blurred vision.

"As real as any of us can be, witch. Do not strike me again, or else I will see you never get your wish of death. You may yet keep my company for an eternity." Cersei pauses. "Oh, you don't know… So much has changed since you've been away. The dead walk, the fires talk, anything is possible now. Anything, it seems, but loyalty to the queen."

"There is only one queen, and she is Daenerys Targ…" Ser Ilyn's boot silences her. For a moment, Cersei fears the blow has killed the frail woman, but as Ser Ilyn lifts Ellaria's face up to hers, she still breathes.

"I am the queen," Cersei sneers. "I will always be the queen, and I always have. And now I have to kill my aunt."

* * *

**The Kingswood**

The weight of a trident and the Valyrian blade Leviathan weigh heavily on Mycah's back as he trudges through the winter forest. But he has no intent of leading his love into danger unprepared. Sansa follows close behind on foot, shrouded in a dark green cloak, as their only donkey had been given over to his cousin, Wynafryd. Behind him marches Brienne of Tarth and two of the White Harbor guard – Horster and Broderick. At rear walk two knights of the Vale – Ser Ben Coldwater and Ser Lymond Lynderly.

Broderick is the first to see the movement through the barren, frosted branches.

"Men approaching!" the snub-nosed guard whispers.

Mycah takes his trident in hand as Brienne and the men draw their swords, circling around Sansa and Wynafryd as six men, in black leather ill-suited to this weather emerge. White skulls are painted on their dark skin. Recognizing them as Dornishmen, Sansa gently pushes between Mycah and Brienne and lowers her hood.

"Stand down. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I have come to speak with Princess Arianne Martell on the matter of my brother."

* * *

**Tumbler's Falls**

The beginnings of a blizzard have begun to descend upon the small village as candles are lit in the sept. Ser Argilac kneels before a humble wooden carving of The Stranger. The other lords say their own prayers, as Missandei, Tyrion and Qyburn watch.

"We should go soon, my lady, before the weather worsens," Qyburn whispers in her ear.

"We?" Missandei turns, speaking louder than she'd meant.

"Yes. You will be coming with me."  
"As your prisoner?"

"As my guest. You are no warrior. You do not belong on the battlefield."

"Do you not think they will win?" she points to the Hightowers. Qyburn does not answer, but both his eyes and Tyrion's betray uncertainty. "Those fires over the horizon belong to my queen's men. No matter who wins the battle, I will be protected here!"

"And how many of Damion Lannister's army know your face?" Qyburn shakes his head. "If the Hightowers lose, you will burn with them. You may bring your guardian if you like. But this is the only way."

She kneels to look Tyrion in the eye. He nods, and she silently concedes. Walking through the sept, she finds Arthur and Alysanne kneeling before The Mother. Her decision made, they share a final embrace. As they part, Alysanne places her own orange-gemmed pendant around Missandei's neck, in the shape of the Hightower.

"Dawn is only a horizon away," Alysanne smiles. "Never forget."

* * *

**The Kingswood**

A fine dinner has been presented before the assembled lords and ladies in what had once been King Robert's own hunting lodge. Arianne eyes all the guests from her seat at the head of the room, where Gendry Baratheon sits in the seat his father held not so long ago. At her side are Sarella and Sam Tarly. To Gendry's left sits his sister, Davos and Lord Dondarrion. But Arya Stark instead sits at the table directly before them, reunited with the guest Arianne is most interested in – Sansa Stark.

"Do you think she wishes to wed Lord Gendry?" Sam whispers.

"Not by the way that Manderly knight is at her side," Sarella smirks. "The lady wouldn't know what to do with a stag like him anyway."

"Dear cousin, I thought you wanted Garin," Arianne chuckles into her wine.

"My father never kept to one lover," Sarella pours another glass. "I see no reason to break family tradition, not when the kingdoms have unveiled so many eligible men at such an incredible rate."

"You're starting to sound like me."

"I spent ten years pretending to be a boy surrounded by horrid old men," Sarella leans back in her chair. "I think I've earned some allowance for lust."

As the servants present desert, Arianne notes the Evenstar's daughter, the great brute of a woman in plate, grow nervous. Finally, she stands, but few note her as the festivities carry on.

"Quiet!" Davos shouts, suddenly. "The Lady Brienne of Tarth would speak!"

"Lord, ladies," Brienne begins, clearly unused to addressing such a crowd. "Some of you may know that Ser Jaime Lannister died in the North, fighting the Army of the Dead."

"And good riddance!" someone yells. "Kingslayer!"

"He made mistakes, that's true," Brienne struggles to continue. "And he had many flaws. But he tried to be a good man, and he died saving many. So I made him a vow. Cersei Lannister sits on the throne, pregnant. With his child."

"An abomination!" Bonifer Hasty thunders.

"An innocent child, that will be born any day!" Brienne shouts back. "And I vowed to defend it. I request permission to lead a team into the capital, to capture Cersei and end this war before it claims any more lives. Once the child is born, you may dispense what justice upon its mother you will."

"You speak nobly," Harlan Dondarrion rises. "But such a mission is surely impossible."

"No, it's not," Arya rises. "I'll go with her."

"And I," the Hound rises. "If you want Cersei, you'll have to go through my brother, first." Slowly, more champions rise to take of Brienne's challenge, each volunteer bringing the slightest smile to Brienne's face.

"Mallora says that Daenerys' army has been delayed," Sam says, hushed. "If we can end the war before she reaches the capital..."

"Dorne supports this plan!" Arianne declares, rising.

"As does The Reach," Sam follows suit. All eyes turn to Gendry. He looks to the Stark girls, then to Harlan Dondarrion, then to Davos and his sister.

"I agree. If there is a chance to end the war without more loss of life, we must take it."

* * *

**Red Army Camp**

Damion Lannister marches out of his farmhouse and into the blinding snow, a blizzard of the like he has never seen. Even beneath the massive fires lit by the red priests, Damion can barely see a few feet in front of his path. Holding a gloved hand up to guard his eyes, he follows Forley Prestor's burning sword to the front line, where a long line of stakes and pyres have been erected. The whole of their army stands at attention, despite the very real risk of being blown off their feet. He takes his place at the head of the assembly, beside Varys, Lord Crakehall, Malakho and Robert Brax as Prestor begins to speak.

"R'hllor!" he howls to the heavens as his sword burns brighter. "We call upon your mighty name to quench the winter winds of the enemy and give us victory in battle. We hand over to you these unbelievers who would keep your people in chains."

On cue, the guards bring out the prisoners and bind them to the stakes, one by one. The last is Flement Brax, staring hopelessly at his son, who barely seems to recognize him. But one empty pyre remains.

"Purify us, our lord!" Prestor continues. "Purge the faults from our armor and expose our weakness, so we can be made anew!"

Under the wind, Varys does not hear the Unsullied behind them until they seize his arms. But at their touch, he looks to Damion with a crippling dawn of realization.

"We must be pure." Damion does not turn. "It seems you've run out of web to spin." The eunuch shouts a protest, but is silenced as the wind screams louder and harsher. The blizzard even obscures the pyres now, lit only by Prestor's sword, and Varys is dragged away into the white.

He is tied to the stake beside Flement. They see Prestor begin to walk towards them.

"Tell me," Flement resigns himself. "What did the voice in the fire say to you?"

Varys turns to him with a look of pure despair. "It sang to me. It sang of a summer without end, of a sun fired by a million souls. It told me I would open the door. And I have. I have…"

And the flames are upon them.

_Even the eunuch is screaming_, Damion thinks. _In the end, they're all alike._

* * *

**Daenerys' Camp**

They look so helpless when she sees them – Yet more lost orphans begging in the path of the advancing army, hoping perhaps for a blanket or some bread. Daenerys cannot ignore them.

"My queen, we don't have time…" Ser Osgood whispers as she stops.

"These are my people," she insists. "All my time is their's."

Osgood and Sharp Fang stand by nervously as she kneels to greet the children.

"What's your name?" Daenerys asks the leader, a small boy with dark skin, holding hands with a pale girl. They do not answer. And then she sees the knives drop out from their sleeves.

Before she can scream, the boy's blade is in her shoulder. Then the scream comes. Sharp Fang is the first to her, but the girl's knife slips between the plate at his ankle. He drops to the ground and two children are upon him. Red blood sullies his white cloak. Daenerys tries to shove the children away as feels the cuts again and again. Falling back, she crawls across the frozen earth. But hearing Ser Osgood draw his sword, she turns back.

"Stop! Stop! They're only children!"

But her words barely make a sound.

The shouts from outside draw Jorah's men away from their place at his side. He hears shouts of the queen. Panicking, he struggles to rise, but the pain is crippling. It's then that he sees Meera Reed standing over him.

"A slaver too craven for the Wall," the girl glares, fondling the spear in her hand. "My father never liked you. It's no surprise to see you with her."

"I don't know what Howland told you, girl," Jorah reaches for a sword, but there is none in reach. "But Daenerys is not your enemy. She is here to break chains."

"You don't even know what she is. No one knows. But my father remembered the truth of the savior that comes in fire. That's why you killed him."

"We let your father go!"

"He's dead. If he lived, he'd have taken me from your hands by night without breaking a sweat."

"You don't know what you're doing…" Jorah protests, but in a blur the spear is in him. He clutches desperately at the blood flowing from new wounds. Feeling bile and blood pooling up in his throat, he calls out.

"Daenerys!" But she is not there to hear. And Meera Reed is gone.

* * *

**The Goldroad**

It is a battle of ice and fire. The Red Army had appeared, rising up out of the blizzard, heralded by great flaming rocks flung down from the sky onto the battlefield, their blades ablaze, each its own horrid flame. At the sight, the Oldtown lines had nearly faltered, but Ser Garth had rallied the men and led the charge. Now they war, blinded by smoke, snow and blood. Bodies break upon Unsullied shield walls and beneath the hooves and blades of the Dothraki. And tall above it all, in his bronzed armor and three-pronged helm, Garth swings _Vigilance_ down upon his foes, a pile of bodies at his feet.

"Press on!" he yells to the men at his side, leading them towards the Unsullied line. His Valyrian steel breaks two spears and drives his way through the shields, hacking away at the soldiers in his path. "Onward, onward! For the Seven!" But as he charges on, he rises over another ridge and yet another volley of flaming rubble rains down from the sky. Before him stretches leagues of the brightest fires he has ever seen, shining harsher than the day even now, creating an orange, hellish haze as the snow traps the light.

"For the Lord!" He hears a shout. Leading an opposing charge he sees a man near as big as himself, flaming axe in hand, the tips of his beard smoldering – Lord Rolland Crakehall. Garth steadies his feet in the deep snow and says a silent prayer. Two Crakehall men overtake their lord, and fall quickly. Then Rolland's axe meets _Vigilance_ with an explosion of embers.

Their duel is slow and unwieldy, the snow catching their feet and blurring their vision, but their blows are no less heavy, each strike sending sparks to smolder in the ice. One wrong turn and a brutal blow from the axe pierces the back of Garth's armor. He nearly falls, but swings around in time to strike Crakehall's right arm. The axe drops, but Garth still feels the heat – his back is on fire.

"Burn!" As the opposing lord roars a curse in defiance, Garth brings down his sword in a final thrust, through the man's neck and down, burying the tip into the earth before he collapses on his back letting the snow extinguish the flame.

How long he lies there, he cannot say, but he lies unmoving, unthinking until he sees a horse above him. And atop the horse, his brother. Gunthor. The younger knight has never seen battle before, and the terror shows in his eyes. Garth slowly picks himself to his feet.

"What do we do?" Gunthor shouts, all his bravado and arrogance washed away. It should make Garth smile. But not like this. He turns back to the inferno before him, to the screams of his dying men. And he knows. He lifts the heavy helmet from his brow and drops it into the snow.

"Run."

"What?"

"Run," he pulls _Vigilance_ free from Lord Crakehall's body and hands it up to his brother. "Lead a retreat. Take what men remain and return to the Reach. They must not extinguish our light, brother."

"I can't…"

"You must," Garth stares at his brother until Gunthor gives in. His horse turns and disappears into the storm, without another look back. Kicking aside his helmet, Garth looks back to the battlefield. He can see another man, marked by the boar, running towards him, a dozen men at his back – Tybolt Crakehall, whose father lies dead at Garth's feet.

Breathing in a deep, cold breath, Garth lifts the dead man's axe, it's tip still smoldering, and stares defiantly before the flames. In these final moments, he calls out to those who remain. And, emerging as if ghosts from the snow, he hears the cry.

"We light the way!"

"We Light the Way!"

"We Light the Way!"


	32. Azor Ahai Part 1

**Moqorro's Workshop**

"Can you feel it?" Deep beneath the Red Keep, in the hall where the skeletons of the dragons are kept, the red priest Moqorro works his spells as King Euron and Leyla Hightower watch. "The power is growing, the flame burns brighter than ever. The moment of triumph is near."

"You speak in riddles!" Euron shouts, frustrated. He has almost emptied a bottle of nightshade while waiting. "Speak to me plain!"

"My king, I've read the texts, and they are all coming true…"

"What is coming true? What prophecies? I need to see!" Euron pushes the priest aside, stepping towards the glass candle placed within the shattered skull of Balerion the Black Dread. "This ends now!" Moqorro does not move to stop him as he draws a dagger and slices open his hand

Leyla watches intently, her own brain addled by the strange blue wine, as the candle begins to burn with colors the likes she has never seen before. Euron stumbles back, blood dripping to the floor as the light and shadows spiral around the room in a psychedelic whirlwind. Losing her footing, Leyla keels to one side and vomits onto the floor, the blue wine spilling out. For a moment, she stares at the bricks on the floor as their lines warp and spin before her, a deafening scream roaring within her brain. But slowly, the scream turns to laughter. Euron.

She rises, and can see the light now spinning around the king, as he holds the glass candle with one hand. His missing eye seems ablaze with fire, and she swears the iron tentacles of his crown writhe alive amongst his hair. Blue, white, yellow, green flash across his face. And the shadows… The shadows somehow brighter than the flame.

"I'm done waiting!" he shouts, though to the priest or the candle, it's unclear. Leyla cannot even see Moqorro among the blinding lights and shadows. "Take back the veil and show me! Show me your power! Show me Azor Ahai!"

* * *

**Winterfell**

The prince's screams echo down the halls. Theon Greyjoy stumbles over his own feet, rushing to get to Bran's chambers, his legs still not fully healed. By the time he reaches his liege's side, Obara Sand is already there, pouring cold water over Bran's face as he writhes in his bed, face bright red.

"He's burning up inside…" she clearly knows naught what to do. "Get the maester!"

Theon turns frantically to two servants in the doorway. "Get the maester!"

But in Bran's sleep, there are no maesters. There is only fire. He is standing on the gates of Winterfell. A great dragon of living shadow descends from the black sky, its flames of many colors pouring down to melt the walls. He opens his mouth to scream, but salt pours out instead. He turns to run, but cannot move. He looks down to see weirwood roots growing up around his legs, trapping him fast to the ground.

Then through the flames he sees Bloodraven, huge raven's wings unfolding from his back, sword in hand, facing the dragon in the sky. He cannot look away as his body stiffens, his skin turned to the palest bark, blood-red leaves sprouting from his fingers, his mouth, his hair. The leaves block his vision until all he can see through them are two piercing blue eyes emerging the darkness, and an icy hand extended to him…

But as he wakes, it is Theon's hand in his, and the only fire is the maesters candle. And now, he thinks, he can finally hear his screams.

* * *

**Tumbler's Falls**

The blizzard has finally stopped. Damion Lannister's horse trudges across the battlefield through two feet of snow, stained with soot and blood. Young Robert Brax rides behind him, carrying _Brightroar_, or whatever Valyrian blade Tywin Lannister had seized to replace the one lost so long ago. To his left rides Malakho, of the Dothraki.

"I used to think my people could live on these fields," the old bloodrider muses. "But not in such winters as these."

"If the priests are to be believed, soon there will be no winter at all," Damion replies.

They come upon Ser Tybolt Crakehall, kneeling among the dead. The huge knight rocks back and forth on his knees, in shock. As they near, Damion recognizes the bodies before him. One, by the armor and size, must surely be Ser Garth Hightower. The other - Damion's goodbrother and Master of War, Tybolt's father, Lord Rolland Crakehall.

_The fool_, Damion thinks. _His god could do many things, but not save him from death. He should have stayed behind the lines with the other commanders. But brash men must be heroes, and Rolland was brasher then most. Heroics always end the same way_.

Damion rides on without saying a word to the mourning Tybolt. They reach the village, most of the buildings burned to the ground. Ser Carnegie Rowan is waiting.

"What is left of their armies have fled with most of the smallfolk," the red-headed knght reports. "We believe Lord Florent and Gunthor Hightower are among them."

"No prisoners," Damion shakes his head. "That will be a sore disappointment to the priests."

"No," Ser Carnegie corrects him. "We captured some."

Dismounting, Damion and Robert follow the knight into a burnt out inn, where two-score prisoners are under guard. Most of them servants or men-at-arms, but one woman Damion recognizes from her dark hair and olive skin – Alysanne Hightower. He signals her to be brought to him, and they walk outside.

"Why are you here?" he asks. "Surely you could have fled with your brother."

"My husband was on the battlefield. I stay with him."

"I fear if he did not flee and is not captive, he's most assuredly dead. Which leaves you a choice. Bend the knee and I'll allow you to petition your brother in Oldtown on our behalf. Or you will burn, like all the others."

"I will never betray the Seven. Nor will my brother," Alysanne spits at his feet. "Oldtown will never bend to a godless barbarian."

"I am godless because my men keep a different faith than yours?"

"A god that burns unbelievers is a god not worth following."

"Your gods command death by sword or hanging. How is fire any different?" Damion shakes his head. "Killing is killing. A life taken one way is the same as any other. Some men turn to dust, others to ash. In the end, you can't tell them apart. The only god worth following is one with power. And R'Hllor showed more power in this battle than the Seven showed me my whole life."

"Then you are weaker than I thought. You need fire and witchcraft to feel strong. You think you really control these zealots?"

"You have a funny idea of strength, my lady. Here I stand free. And you in chains."

Alysanne slaps him. It stings even more in the cold, leaving a red mark on his cheek.

"We're done here," Damion motions to his men to take her.

"At least have the respect to kill me with your sword," she resists. "Do not sully your legacy, men will hear of what you do here!"

"Men will hear and be afraid," Damion watches the woman dragged away. "Do not trouble me with matters of legacy, my lady. My ashes will be mixed with yours soon enough. And then what will either of us care what men say of us?"

* * *

**Daenerys' Camp**

"He was a great man," Ser Merlon Crakehall speaks solemnly, looking at the body of Jorah Mormont, lying next to Sharp Fang atop pyres before the full camp, their blood-stained white capes draped over them. "I did not serve him long, but I will carry the honor of following him for all my life."

"Sharp Fang was great warrior," Black Spot speaks for his fellow Unsullied Queensguard. "He survived horror to be killed by cowards. We will avenge him."

But one figure is missing from the assembly – the queen herself. Daenerys, her many wounds still seeping blood through heavy bandages, sits atop a rock at a distance, angrily glaring at Eres and Ser Osgrey Grafton.

"You can bring him back. I know you can. R'Hllor brought Jon back, and others I have heard of. Why not Jorah?"

"Such powers are beyond me, your grace," Eres reluctantly insists. "Perhaps if Zatarra were still with us… But the lord called her away."

"Why! Why would he do that? Why would he let them kill Jorah? He was with me from the beginning! Before all of this, he was always there for me…" She breaks down crying. Eres places a warming hand on her shoulder, kneeling to look her in the eye.

"Perhaps his sacrifice was a sign. To save this world, you must eclipse what you once were. You must become the one who was promised. You will no longer be the girl who began this journey. Then our lord will speak to you, then you will see the answers."

She turns Daenerys' head down towards the cold, shivering remnant of the men who followed her North and those that follow Jon. "Don't you want to save them?"

"I do," Daenerys swears desperately. "But how? Even the children betray me. The northerners do not trust the red god. How much longer will they follow me? I will only have left what I had to begin – My Dothraki. My Unsullied. My dragons. And half as many as I had when I came."

"But they will follow King Jon!" Ser Osgrey insists. "They will follow Aemon!"

"This is not his war!" Daenerys stands, shakily, suddenly angry. "This is not his dream! I love him, but I did not come all this way to have my life defined by another man! I do not want my story to be writ down as the girl who brought King Aemon Targaryen his dragon! I am the mother of dragons, the breaker of chains, I have come to free my people and I will not rest until that day!"

"You are just and true, my queen," Eres steps forward. "But you are wrong in one account. You have far more power than when you first stepped foot on these shores. For you have your destiny. R'hllor is with you. Its might is all you need to bring light to this world."

"Then so be it." She wipes the tears from her eyes and, leaning on Osgrey for support, limps down to the pyres. As Eres lights the wood, a light and beautiful snow begins to fall. But as the flakes dust Jorah's pale face, they melt, the flames rising up higher and higher, reflected in the dragon queen's eyes.

_Today is the end,_ she thinks, as her great bear's features disappear in the blaze. _And the beginning._

* * *

**Blackwater Bay**

Nothing could have prepared Jon for the sea. It's just so… big. The land gives way beneath Rhaegal as the dragon soars out over the water. In the distance, Jon can see the fleet – Targaryen and Greyjoy banners. He lands atop the flagship carefully, yet Rhaegal's weight nearly capsizes the vessel. He finds the fleet commanders waiting – Lord Sebaston Farman, Humfrey Hightower, Sandro Qo and Queen Yara Greyjoy.

"We're ready for battle, your grace," Yara reports. "The Golden Company's ships remain docked at Dragonstone. Without them, we have a sure advantage against my uncle."

"Do you mean to ride the dragon beside us?" Humfrey cranes to catch a closer glimpse of the beast.

"No," Jon shakes his head. "The city walls are lined with scorpion bolts. And there's something worse. Something I don't understand. The Golden Company attacked at night. There was a boy among them. He did something to the dragons. They ran amuck, burned down half the camp. We can't risk that again, not in the city."

"Then what are we to do?" Lord Clifton asks.

"My men grow tired of waiting," Yara is annoyed. "We want victory. I want Euron's head."

"We wait," Jon insists. "And when the moment is right, we will have our victory."

* * *

**The Kingswood**

Sansa Stark and Ser Mycah Manderly have followed Brienne's small party to the edge of the wood, but now the time comes to say good-bye.

"My lady, I am begrudged to leave you," Brienne kneels.

"I give you leave," Sansa urges her to rise and, pushing past formality, embraces her guardian. "I only command that you survive to return to me."

"Lady Sansa will be under my protection," Mycah promises, smiling. Brienne seems to accept that reassurance and turns away. She carries in one hand the sword once held by Jaime Lannister, and tosses it to Sandor Clegane.

"Take this, Hound," she insists, climbing upon her horse. "You may yet need it."

At last, only Arya is left standing. She looks sheepishly up at her sister, awkwardly shuffling forward for a hug.

"Keep an eye on Gendry, please," she whispers. "He could learn a few things from you."

"I never thought I'd hear you say that," Sansa laughs, stroking her sister's hair. "Aren't you the little girl who loved to soil my dresses?"

"Well, we've both grown up," Arya pulls away.

"Aye," Sansa looks back to the woods. "He should have come to see you away."

"I don't think he wanted me to go," Arya climbs atop her horse.

"He didn't say anything at the camp…"

"No," she takes one sad look back before flicking the reigns. "He believes in me." With that, she is off her horse joining the line of eight – Davos Seaworth, Brienne of Tarth, Sandor Clegane, Ormund Storm, Elia Sand, Ser Ben Coldwater and Ser Myles Manwoody. Sansa and Mycah watch until they disappear over the horizon, before silently turning back into the woods, their waiting only just begun.

* * *

**Moqorro's Workshop**

When Leyla awakes, she is alone on the cold stone floor. Groping about, she struggles to stand and shuffles through the darkness, arms outstretched before her. Her mind hazily struggles to piece together memories of the past night. Nightshade was a strange drink, after all, she could scarce say what had truly happened and what had been a drunken illusion. But whatever it was, she knows it was no good.

At last, her hands hit a wall. She feels her way along, turning carefully down a hallway, where the faintest glimmer of light can be seen. Suddenly, she hears voices, and comes to an abrupt stop. It is the king, with his captains, the Codd Brothers – Lucas and Eldred.

"Are you clear on what you are to do?" Euron is saying.

"Of course, your grace," one brother answers.

"I'm just confused and all," the other grumbles. "Ain't ye still with the queen? I thought we wanted Cersei to win?"

"Plans change, Eldred," Euron replies. "That's why I'm a king and you're a captain. Now get to it!"

Leyla stifles a gasp as she hears two sets of footsteps echoing away. Her mind begins to race beneath her splitting headache. What to do? Should she tell someone? Qyburn? Lady Genna? She cannot say. Her brother had sent her here to spy on Cersei, but she had fallen under Euron's spell, she now sees. The talk of high mysteries and ancient learning has fascinated her and, well, he had been a voracious lover. But now… the king and queen turning on each other, what could that bring?

Then her heart stops. There is a third set of footsteps, walking towards her. She tries to back away, but they feet grow nearer. Faster. Abandoning stealth, she breaks into a sprint, but in the blinding darkness, her foot hits a stone and she falls. In the dark, she can see a shadow standing over her.

"My lady, is that you?" Euron's voice says.

"Yes, your grace," she answers, cautiously. Strong hands grab her arm and pull her to her feet. Then she feels the knife in her stomach. The last thing she hears is his voice.

"That is… most unfortunate."

* * *

**The Black Cells**

Qyburn stifles a yawn as he heats iron pincers over a brazier. He had not had a moment to sleep after returning from the battlefield before being sent here to extract information from the captives the Golden Company had delivered. They now hang, hands chained above their heads, lining a long, dim corridor of the dungeons. He had spurned isolated cells for this lot. They need to see what happens to their brothers-at-arms.

_Especially this one_, he thinks, approaching Grey Worm. The Unsullied commander is bruised, burned and bloodied, but remains ever defiant. He clinches the red-hot pincers around the man's nipple, twisting, but he does not scream, only gritting his teeth harder.

"All this suffering is needless, my new friend," he motions to Alys for a new tool. "You only need say the word, and you may yet be spared. Do you see this pin?" He points to the Iron Hand. "It means with a word I could give you the whole City Watch."

"I will never betray my queen," Grey Worm glares. "I swore to live and die for her."

"I know," Qyburn takes a razor-sharp instrument from Alys. "Which is why I will not kill you. But are you so eager to bargain with the lives of your men?" Beside Grey Worm hangs Cley Cerwyn, barely recognizable from his injuries. Unlike the Unsullied, when Qyburn presses the blade deep into his eye, the young northern lord lets out a shriek that echoes down the halls. With a sickening pop, blood spurts from the now empty socket and the old man is holding Cley's eye in his hand.

Calmly, as Cley whimpers in pain, Qyburn rinses the eye off in a bowl of water before holding it to the light.

"There are those in Essos who swear the eyes of a living man can cure any wound." He smiles, prying Grey Worm's mouth open. The soldier resists, but Qyburn's old hands are strong, and drop the eyeball onto his tongue. He holds the mouth shut until he hears Grey Worm swallow and gag. Then, at last, he steps back.

"Until your mind has changed, commander, this will be your diet. And I fear not all the pieces of your comrades will be so easy to swallow."

With that, Qyburn turns to leave the prisoners to stew in darkness, and makes the long, slow walk back into the sunlit upper chambers. Washing his hands clean of blood, he finds Missandei and Tyion sharing a bottle of wine. They offer him a drink as he slides, exhausted, into a chair beside them.

"Where have you been?" Missandei asks.

"Busy. Doing the work of the crown," Qyburn sighs. His moment of peace is short-lived.

"Lord Hand, have you seen what is happening on the streets?" Genna Lannister barges into the room.

"No, no," Qyburn rises, wearily. "I have not left the cells."

"The king's red priests have turned the people against us. They are singing the praises of the Targaryen bitch, calling her some sort of savior! Have you seen the king?"

"Not since I've returned."

"Then find him!" Genna drags the Hand from the room and lowers her voice. "The battle at the Falls is lost. The western armies are within a day's march of the walls. I hear talk Henry Staedmon has already fled the city."

"By the gods," Qyburn stumbles, steadying himself on the wall. "I must ready the defenses… And you. You should leave as well, my lady. I know ways…"

"Again, no." Genna stops him. "Go do your duty. I'll do mine."

Behind them, Missandei looks up as Ser Argilac enters.

"I spoke with the guards in the yard," the grim knight reports. "Ser Damion's forces were victorious. They march on the capital as we speak."

"What of the Hightowers?"

"I do not know," he looks away, sadly. She turns away, clutching her pendant, the last gift from Lady Alysanne. "My lady, there is another matter. There was an attack on Daenerys' camp. Prisoners were taken."

"Grey Worm?"

"He's here."

"Show me!" She shouts, frantically trying to storm out of the room, but Argilac catches her shoulder and pulls him back in.

"It's not so simple! He's in the dungeons."

"Then we will find him!" she insists. "And if that old man has harmed a hair on my love's head, I'll kill him myself!" But he does not let her go, and slowly, she calms. Looking about, she notices something is missing. "Where's Tyrion?"

* * *

**The Streets of King's Landing**

The people of the city flood the streets, dressed in red and waving banners of flames and cloth dragons, following the lead of priests and priestesses who perform fiery magic and proclaim the coming of their savior, Azor Ahai. Through the throng press Ser Henry Staedman, Master of War, with four of his personal guard. He grimaces as a filthy beggar in crimson rags stumbles into his path.

"The whole world's gone mad," he sneers. "Bonifer Hasty was right, the world began to end when the Sept fell."

"Ser, this way!" one of his men calls, and he shoves his way through the crowd until he finds the guard waiting at the foot of the city walls, horses waiting. He hands the knight a Lannister banner. "Fly these and they should give you no trouble. Though I fear the order to seal the gates will be given soon enough."

"By then we'll be long gone," Staedmon raises the banner and climbs atop his mount. "And I pray we'll never be back."

* * *

**Harry Strickland's Manse**

The Commander-General of the Golden Company bustles through the front door of his home, covering his ears to drown out the clamor in the streets. He curses himself for not having stayed on Dragonstone with his men. The curse grows deeper when he sees his squire, Grif, standing in the hall, pale as a ghost. The lad had faced down dragons nary a week before. He did not fright easily.

"What's wrong, boy?"

"I..i..in the cellars, ser…" Grif stammers, motioning for the general to follow. They make their way to the kitchens, then down a narrow flight of stairs. Strickland brushes away cobwebs as he enters the cellar to find two of his men, just as startled as Grif. And between them rests a keg of ale, pried open. But as Grif pulls back the lid, the glowing green substance within is decidedly not ale.

"Move very slowly," Strickland feels his blood go cold. "How much is there?"

"We don't know, ser," Grif gulps.

"Then get it all out. Every cask, every keg, every flask."

"Where?" one guard asks.

"I don't care, where!" Strickland's patience begins to fray as he turns back to the stairs. "Just not in our bloody cellar! It seems we've overstayed our welcome."

"But you said…"

"A plan's no good if we're dead! Pack your things, lose the wildfire, and we're leaving this damned city!"

* * *

**Near King's Landing**

On a hill within view of the capital's walls, Brienne's party stands over a cluster of slain knights and captured horses. Their Lannister banners lie discarded on the ground, the bodies in a pile as Elia Sand strips them of weapons and coin. A concerned look of recognition grows on Ormund Storm's face as he kicks aside a helmet on one of the men to reveal their face.

"That's Ser Henry Staedmon," he calls to the others. "He's sworn to Lord Dondarrion."

"They were flying lions," Sandor points out. "We couldn't have known who they were."

"Eh, but it's for the best Harlan never finds out."

"If you keep talking so much, we'll all be dead, and then he won't find out anything," Arya glares at the others, her impatience growing. They've already stopped here for too long. She notices Brienne and Davos standing to the side, and moves close enough to hear them talk.

"I can get you in and out of the city easily enough," Davos explains. "But if you want to get to the queen? That's a whole new level of smuggling."

"We'll find a way," Brienne insists. Arya turns away to see Sandor is standing beside her.

"I don't suppose they'd be like to let Arya Stark just stroll in to see Cersei," Sandor growls. "But this Staedmon bastard, that's another story."

Arya glares at him. She hates that he knows her secret. But yet here she is, reminded of Braavos. She hasn't stolen a face since that night at the inn, that night she dreamed of mother. And she'd sworn she'd never do it again. But now, with so much on the line... She walks slowly towards the pile of bodies, knife in hand, and runs the other along the side of Henry Staedmon's face. She remembers them all now. Jaquen. The Waif. And Syrio before them. He had taught her to say no to the god of death. The Faceless Men taught her to serve it. And at Winterfell, she had looked it in the eyes and killed.

_So what am I? _She looks back at her companions. She thinks of Jon, of Gendry and Sansa, Bran and Hot Pie, of everyone from the greatest lord to the lowest pauper. She saved them all before. _I owe the world nothing. I won't sacrifice anymore. _She stops to look up at the sky and breathe in the winter air. _No. Syrio and Jaquen both made me who I am. Without them, I'd be dead a hundred times over. I am a Faceless Man and a Water Dancer. I am Arya Stark._

"I can get us to the queen!" she shouts, and moves the knife to the man's cheek, trying to remember the old incantations etched in her mind.

"What do you mean?" Brienne steps forward, but Sandor blocks her.

"Aye, I don't think you'll wanna watch this part."

* * *

**Daenerys Camp**

Ser Osgood lifts coals from the brazier and holds them out over the bare chest of one of the "little birds" captured after the attack. The small boy whimpers as the looming knight glares down at him.

"Tell me who sent you!"

"Osgood, stop!" Ser Merlon bursts into the tent, followed by Black Spot. "They're children!"

"They attacked the queen! They killed the Lord Commander!" the Gulltown knight protests, but the other Queensguard push him aside. He squeals in pain as his own hand slips into the brazier. Merlon, meanwhile, tears the boys restraints away and hands him over to Black Spot.

"Take him back with the others. See that they are well-guarded."

"You seem to fancy yourself to take Ser Jorah's place so soon," Osgood grumbles, nursing his burned hand.

"The queen will make what choice she sees fit," Merlon glares. "You may rest assured, Ser Osgood, you will not have that burden thrust upon you." He storms back out into the heavy snowfall that has once again entrapped the camp, only to find Black Spot waiting still with the boy.

"He wants to tell you something," the Unsullied knight states. Merlon kneels to look in the boys frightened eyes.

"What is it, boy?"

"Please don't attack the capital, ser," he whimpers. The fury with which he had wielded his knife so recently is gone. "I have friends there."

"Well, I'm afraid attack we must. But you need not worry. Our quarrel is with Cersei Lannister. We will liberate the people of King's Landing from her rule. Your friends will be free."

"No," the boy shakes his head. "No, no, no… The wildfire. The queen had us put it everywhere. Beneath the streets, inside the houses. No one will be freed, ser. Everyone will just… burn."

Merlon looks up to Black Spot, but it is clear the Unsullied does not understand.

"Take him away, see he is warmed. I must see the queen."

But Daenerys stands in the heart of the camp, beside a ring of fire brighter than any she has seen before, alone save for Eres, beneath Drogon's watchful eyes. The warrior slowly strips Daenerys of her outer garments. But she does not shiver in the cold. Daenerys stares straight ahead into the fire as Eres takes a knife to her hair, slowly, crisply cutting away, the white strands blowing away in the snow. Once her scalp is bare, cold fingers press red paint onto her skin, leaving marks of Valyrian and texts even older still.

"The Northerners will not come near the fires," Eres talks as she works. "They have seen such power, yet still they whisper against the lord."

"They will come to see the truth," Daenerys steps away, examining the marks on her arms before looking up and into the fire. "I am ready.."

"Then go."

Eres watches as Daenerys slowly steps barefoot through the snow towards the fire.

"What do you see?"

"I see… Jorah. He's there, in the flame. But… what's happened to his eye?"

Eres does not answer as Daenerys takes the final step forward. And then the ring of fire closes behind her, and it is as if she were never truly there.

* * *

**Blackwater Bay**

In the night, Jon dreams. He feels the water beneath him tremble, rising, he sees tentacles of shadow rising up from the black sea and wrapping around the masts. He hears an unearthly call of terror and turns to see one of the tentacles wrapped around Rhaegal's neck. In an instant, the dragon is pulled over the edge and disappears. Jon rushes to aid it, but the wooden hull splits beneath his feet and the shadows pull him down.

Bitter, freezing salt water fills his eyes and lungs as he flails about, falling down, down. But as he looks beneath him, he sees green flames on the ocean floor. He lands, and his eyes are clear. It is the city, King's Landing, ablaze at his feet. And around the fires dance shadows, contorting and distorting into shapes with the faces of all those he loves – Arya, Sansa, Bran, Sam… And at the heart of the nightmare, in the ruins of the Red Keep, is Daenerys. She spins in a red dress, pulled along by a one-eyed man Jon has never seen. But the sight of him is like a dagger in the heart. And then the man sees him and smiles.

It is the smile that wakes Jon, as he falls from his bed onto the deck, desperately clutching at the sturdy wood. He rushes to the deck to find Rhaegal asleep, right where he left him. Breathing a sigh of relief, he approached the dragon, resting his forehead against its warm snout.

"It's okay," he whispers to it. "She's fine. Everything is fine." But as he turns away, hoping to return to sleep, he finds Humfrey Hightower and Yara Greyjoy waiting for him, grim looks on their faces. "What is it?"

"Word from my sister in the city," Humfrey reports. "The queen has lined the streets with wildfire. She means to burn the city to the ground before she lets us take it."

Before the lad has finished his sentence, the word wildfire strikes Jon cold. He has heard the stories, and in his mind's eyes the fires of his dream roar to life.

"I have to go." He turns to wake Rhaegal.

"But I thought…" Humfrey protests.

"You know the plan," Jon yells as the dragon shakes itself free of slumber. "But whatever happens, do not attack until you receive the signal!"

With that final warning, he is once again in the skies, the night air roaring in his face, the heat of the dragon coursing through his body. He knows not what he fears. He only hopes he is not too late to stop it.


	33. Azor Ahai Part 2

**Blackwater Bay**

Lord Sebaston Farman yawns, stepping onto the deck of his flapship, _Ironbreaker_, as the early morning sun rises over the watery eastern horizon. He quickly realizes something has changed. The dragon is missing.

He pulls aside a passing sailor. "Where has King Jon gone?"

"I can't say, m'lord. Left in the night, he did."

Consternated, Lord Farman rushes to the upper deck, where he finds Yara Greyjoy waiting with Humfrey Hightower.

"Why was I not alerted of the king's departure?" he demands to know.

"We did not wish to disturb your slumber," Yara rolls her eyes, dismissively. The self-styled queen of the Iron Islands has made no attempt to hide her contempt for Sebaston, and he seethes to know Daenerys has endorsed the Islands' independence.

"It's a shame," Humfrey pouts, looking across the bay towards the city. "I would like to see a dragon fight."

"Then you are a foolish boy," Sebaston chides the youth. "Dragons are trouble enough on land. There is nothing more dangerous at sea than fire. Dragons are nothing but fire with wings. And in the height of battle, all ships, no matter what banners they fly, are just kindling."

* * *

**Daenerys' Camp**

Rhaegal swoops down out of the sky into the center of a huge circle of charred wood and soot at the heart of the camp. An exhausted Jon falls down from the dragon's back to find Eres waiting, with the Queensguard at attention behind her.

"Where is the queen?" he gasps for breath. He has ridden non-stop through the night. His legs gone numb, he stumbles. Ser Merlon and Bors of Skagos rush to support him.

Eres looks up to the sky as if to answer.

"What?" For a moment, Jon is confused. "Why, what happened?"

"There was an attack, your grace," Ser Osgood reports. "Ser Jorah and Sharp Fang were killed. The queen has taken flight to end this war before any more lives are lost. She will rain the lord's fire down upon the false…"

"No!" Jon shakes free of the knights. "She can't! There's wildfire!"

"We know," Ser Merlon looks to him, ashamed.

"You mean…" Jon's eyes frantically scan the faces. "Does she know?"

"R'Hllor spoke to her in the fire," Eres answers. "Sacrifices must be made for justice."

"No, I have to stop her!" Jon turns away, running back to Rhaegal. Ser Osgood and Kimbo move to stop him, but he pushes them aside to climb back atop the dragon.

"Your grace, these are not innocents!" Eres yells after him. "Have you forgotten what these people did to your family?"

For a moment, Jon pauses, remembering the years of loss, pain and anger. But he also remembers the man he loved as a father and the lessons Ned Stark had taught. He shakes his head.

"I disagree."

At that, Rhaegal's mighty wings take flight, nearly knocking over the knights and throwing snow and ash up into the air as the great beast rises into pursuit, with a half million lives at stake.

* * *

**Atop Drogon**

Halberd strapped to her black armor, with a flaming dragon helm over her freshly shaven head, Daenerys rides. She always feels a heat atop her dragon. But this time, it is not Drogon's fire. A new flame burns within her very soul. Zatarra had shown her visions before. But last night, naked in the ring of fire, she had at last heard the voice, the voice that had lived in her dreams since she was a little girl – the dragon within.

It had taken many forms – Jorah, Zatarra, Jon, a one-eyed man she did not know, Drogo, even Viserys. And it had shown her things, both horrid and beautiful. She had seen her past burnt away in the redeeming fire. And she had seen her future, a free world alive in endless summer, singing and dancing her praises as their chains fall, one by one.

But her destiny will come in time. For now, one image remains first in her mind – The traitors, using dark magic to steal away Cersei Lannister before she could face the justice of the true queen. She should never have let the Starks out of Winterfell. But that was then and this is now. Cersei will face justice. And so will all who stand in the way.

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

The doors swing open and Genna Lannister walks slowly down the long hall to where her niece sits on the bottom step of the Iron Throne, no longer able to climb to the seat. Queen Cersei Lannister is a far cry from the stern, cold woman who seized this seat so long ago. Her hair has grown out, knotted and disheveled, obscuring her red, puffy face. Her crown rests haphazardly on her head, tangled in golden strands. Swollen fingers run over her stomach as she watches Genna approach.

She speaks, dull and raspy. "You've betrayed me."

"Your grace, you should be in bed," Genna brushes away the accusation. "You're not well."

"No!" Cersei points, threateningly. "I'm not your little girl anymore! I am your queen! And you will treat me as I deserve!"

"Of course," Genna vows, nervously. _She has had fits before. This too shall pass. _"I only ever serve for the good of the realm."

"But you do not serve me. You murdered my advisor. The only one who ever showed me the truth. You conspired with my wretched brother and defiled this keep with treason!" The doors swing open again and the Queensguard enter. "Do not try to lie again. Ser Balon has told me everything."

Genna looks back with anger at the Lord Commander, his eyes unfeeling and straight forward beneath his white helm. She notes Ser Ilyn Payne as well, his headsman's sword drawn. "Your grace, the red woman was manipulating you. We were protecting…"

"I do not need protected!" Cersei rises, shakily. "You're just like father. Just like all the others, all the men. I was never more than a pretty doll to bargain with, to sing songs and to birth heirs. I was never a person, not to you, not to any of you. Father never let me live. What I could have been…"

"You expect me to pity you?" Genna's care turns to a sneer.

"I could have been better than Jaime," Cersei grows more frantic as the knights move to her side. "Better than father! But I was cursed. Cursed to be born a woman!"

"Cursed?" Genna has finally had enough, slowly advancing on her niece. "You were only ever given everything you could desire. Money, power, beauty that never left you! Do not tell me what it is to be a woman in this world. I have lived longer than you, and I have not been so blind."

She is nearly upon Cersei now, only the knights pressed tight between them. "Tell, me, when you say you are cursed, do you think of the washerwomen, the farmer's wives and the whores, raped and killed and left to rot in the ruins of the games you play? You are not cursed. You and Tywin were very much the same. You only lack his wits. And without that, you're nothing."

She turns to storm out, but two of the knights seize her arms. Cersei shoves her, angrier than ever.

"Nothing? I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the first of my name! I planted the Lannister name on this throne, by my own hand! Had I been a man..."

"You have not failed because you are a woman! You've failed because you're vain, stubborn, arrogant and foolish. You always were, and you've only ever grown worse, because no matter what you tell yourself, no one has ever dared to tell you no! We've all seen what you would have been as a man. We all saw Joffrey!"

Cersei opens her mouth to answer, but only a scream comes out. She falls to the floor, clutching her stomach. Genna immediately realizes what is happening. She turns to Balon.

"Get the queen to her chambers. Summon the midwives. The child is coming."

* * *

**The Depths of the Red Keep**

Ser Henry Staedmon leads six guards in Lannister armor up out of the secret passages. But beneath the stern face of the former Master of War, Arya Stark's eyes glace furtively from side to side, trying to fight back the memories of this place, her mind focused only on the mission – Find Cersei, take her captive and flee before the battle can begin.

She notices the fellow infiltrators keep a distance from her. Brienne had not concealed her disturbance at Arya's special "gift". But there was no other way, and so they march on, silently, unnoticed as they rise further up the steps. In the back of the mind Arya hears her prayer. It has grown so short. And now she is so close to ending it.

_The Mountain. Ilyn Payne. Cersei Lannister. Two will die today_, she vows. And when the time comes, she will swing the executioner's blade on Cersei herself.

* * *

**The City Walls**

Qyburn walks along the walls of the city, followed by Alys and his undead guards – Boros and Preston. He is here to inspect the massive scorpion bolts his men have been hard at work installing from the day Daenerys Targaryen landed on their shores. But something is wrong. Something, someone, is missing.

"Where are the men of the Golden Company?" he asks a captain of the City Watch.

"They left shortly before you arrived. Said Strickland had an address to make."

"Then find Strickland and get them back here!" Qyburn dismisses the guard. He turns to find Ser Jon Bettley, Commander of the City Watch, approaching.

"Lord Hand! The fires of the Red Army have been spotted approaching in the West. The raiders out of Cracklaw Point have crawled back out of their bogs. And the Dragon's Fleet is in the mouth of the bay…"

"Alarming," Qyburn nods. "But not unexpected. We have planned for all of this."

But as he moves to dismiss Ser Jon, he notices something on the nearby scorpion. His knees creak as he bends to inspect it – a crucial bolt in the firing mechanism has been severed.

"No...," he murmurs to himself, looking down the wall at the long line of scorpions. "Alys, examine the firing mechanisms."

The girl runs away to the left while Qyburn moves to the next bolt on the right. His heart begins to skip as he immediately sees the same damage inflicted here as well.

Ser Jon can tell something is wrong. "My lord, what is it?"

"These bolts were in perfect condition when I inspected yesterday. Who has been here since?"

"Only the king's men…"

"Then find the king and bring him to me!" Qyburn demands.

"The launching's busted on the next three, too!" Alys yells, running back.

"Damn it all! I need all of the birds here, now!" But as he turns away, something catches his eye on the northern horizon. Something in the sky. "Wait…" He squints harder, wishing his old eyes had the strength of youth. "Ser Jon, what is that?"

The knight stares at the horizon. As he does, the spear drops from his hand, ringing out hauntingly as it clatters on the ground.

"Alys," Qyburn turns to his young assistant, trying to stay calm. "Return to my laboratory. Gather my studies and get them out of the city, I don't care how. You need to leave. Now."

"But my lord…" she protests, but Qyburn shoos her away.

He turns back to Ser Jon, the knight's face drained of blood. "Sound the alarms. Ready the men. And get the gods-damned Golden Company back on these walls!"

* * *

**The Black Cells**

Ellaria Sand sits alone in the dark. How long it has been since she was locked away here, she cannot say. There is no sun, no moon or stars in the cells. Only the torches of those who bring her the food. She had tried to refuse it at first. Tried to starve. But they wouldn't let her die. Cersei wouldn't let her die. So she had learned to mark time by the slow, hideous rotting of her daughter's body, the once beautiful, innocent face reduced to a grinning skull, forever across from her.

She had tried to kill herself more than once. But nothing ever held. It only made her pain worse. And so she took that pain and cherished it. Because even when there is no night, eventually sleep will come. And with sleep, dreams. And in those dreams, she takes her pain and returns it to Cersei. Again and again and again.

When she hears the key turning in the lock, she thinks she is dreaming. But as the door slides open and she turns away from the light, it is Tyrion Lannister who steps into the cell, dressed in fool's motley.

The Imp does not speak, but only takes the lock of her chains in his hands and goes to work. In a moment, the chains fall away. Ellaria swears now she must surely be dreaming. It is not real until she feels the knife Tyrion presses into her hand. And then she stands, shakily at first, and follows his beckoning out of the cell and onward. To vengeance.

* * *

**Qyburn's Laboratory**

Missandei and Ser Argilac Horpe slip silently through the lower levels of the Keep, as children run past them. At last they reach Qyburn's laboratory, almost vacant now. The little birds are all gone. All save Alys, who stands, knives in hand, a bag overflowing with journals and scrolls strapped to her back.

"Where are the keys to the dungeons, little one?" Missandei approaches cautiously. "We're looking for someone."

"Then look on your own!" Alys lashes out with one knife and Missandei jumps back. Argilac steps between them, sword drawn. "You don't scare me. I know she won't let you hurt me. After all, I'm just a little girl…"

"Please," Missandei steps past the knight. "Where are you going with all those books?"

Alys slowly lets down her guard. "I'm leaving the city."

"Please," Missandei slowly places a hand on her shoulder. "We can help each other. Show me the keys, and we can leave together."

"I can't let you release the prisoners! Lord Qyburn…"

"Is sending you out of the city with his life's work. We both know how this battle is going to end. And he wouldn't want either of us to die over a few prisoners."

Slowly, Alys' eyes soften. Silently, she slips one knife back into her pocket. When the hand returns, it is holding the keys.

* * *

**Harry Strickland's Manse**

Harry Strickland is carefully placing the gilded skulls of the Captain-Generals before him into their velvet-padded case when he hears them. Low, rumbling horns from the walls high above. They can only mean one thing.

Slamming the case shut, he marches sternly into the lobby of his home, where his squire and sergeants wait for him. He hands the case to Grif, and checks to see that _Heartsbane_ and _Blackfyre_ are both secure at his side.

"We need to leave, now. The dragons are coming! Move!"

"The gates are barred shut, ser!" Rolly Duckfield hesitates.

"We have elephants, Duck. Elephants! Tear the bloody gates down before we're all burned to a crisp!" With that, he swings open the doors to march out into the streets beyond. The Golden Company has never broken a contract. But that ends today. Some battles are not meant to be won.

* * *

**Atop Drogon**

King's Landing is in sight now. Daenerys remembers the stories that Viserys had told her when they were children. But she has grown up since then. She has seen the truth of the city, what does to good people. They had seen the dead themselves rise from the ground, but that was not enough to show them the error of their ways. They kept playing their game and the wheel kept turning. Until today.

The dead were not enough. She will be enough.

Drogon is nearly at the walls now, and Daenerys can see the lines of scorpion bolts. But R'Hllor has shown her they will burn all the same. The dragon rises up above the clouds. She can hear faint shouts from the guards below.

_Pitiful roars to come from lions._ _Lions who have never seen a dragon._

With a roar, Drogon drops down out of the clouds. Daenerys sees the terror on their faces as they look up, raising useless weapons to the sky.

"Dracarys!"

The dragonfire obliterates the top of the wall, taking the scorpions with it. Drogon rises up to take another pass. Daenerys does not even notice, amidst the destruction in her wake, the first spark.

Green.

* * *

**Cersei's Chambers**

In her chambers within Maegor's holdfast, even Cersei's deafening screams of childbirth cannot drown out the explosions.

"What is it it?" she gasps between convulsions, sweat pouring down her face, her crown tossed aside on the floor. "What's happening?"

The midwives hush her as Genna walks slowly to the window. Her heartbeat slows to a crawl as she looks out. The dragon is here. The stories did not do this terror justice. The walls were ablaze with flame. But cutting through the city was something else. Something worse. Street by street, spurned on by the dragon's breath, buildings explode in bursts of wildfire.

"What have you done…" she whispers. And then the midwives screams join Cersei's.

"What is it?" She turns back to the queen's bed, where the nurses have turned away. One holds something close to her chest. It cries.

_It's here!_ But something is wrong. Genna rushes forward to see.

"My lady, do not look!" the nurse protests. But she does not fight. Genna pulls the crying baby into her arms, and then she sees. Looking to Cersei, she smiles, taunting.

"A dwarf."

"No," Cersei shouts, trying to rise from her bed. "You lie! Give it to me!"

The doors swing open and Euron storms in, shoving aside Ser Henrik and Ser Tallad of the Queensguard. His crown and finery are gone, replaced with the tattered pirate's garb he first arrived in.

"Where is my son?" he demands. Without hesitation, Genna turns and flees. Euron rushes forward to give chase, drawing his sword and cutting the midwives down without hesitation. Horrified, the knights draw their own swords, turning on their king. "Stand down!" Euron orders.

"We serve the queen," Ser Tallad declares, and strikes. Euron's cutlass moves at a furious speed as the two knights circle him, jabbing in tandem, but unable to land a blow. Henrik oversteps for a moment, and Euron stabs beneath his shoulder, shoving the knight back at his brother in arms. Tallad dodges the body and lunges, raining down a series of heavy blows with impeccable form.

For only a moment, it seems as if the king has met his match. But at the bedside lies a pan of water. Grabbing it with one hand, water and bowl hit Tallad's face, offering enough of an opening for a lethal blow. As the knight drops, his spilling blood added to the gore on the floor, Euron steps over the bodies and back to Cersei.

"Where is it?" he snarls.

"Gone," Cersei chokes. "And it was never yours."

"What?" Euron tears Cersei from the bed.

"Jaime's, it was Jaime's!" She shouts, finding the strength to slap him. Her hand leaves a bloody print on his face. But he seems oddly calmed. Placing his arm around her, he walks her to the window. As she props herself against the balcony, he picks her crown from the floor and places it, still dripping with blood, atop her head.

"Then it is not king's blood," Euron sighs. "And I have no use for it. He may yet live to inherit. Look," he points out at the city. "Look at what you will leave him."

Cersei tries to look away from the devastation before her, but his hands close around her throat, forcing her to stare out at the flames – the orange, the dragon's; the green, her own.

_I beat her_, she thinks, as the hands tighten around her neck. _She will not have my city. She will not have my throne_. And as the shadows creep in, soon she can only see the fire, green and orange. _It's beautiful_.

And then it's nothing.

* * *

**Maegor's Holdfast**

Lord Commander Balon Swann stands with the remaining Queensguard at the edge of the bridge leading into the holdfast, white cloaks swaying, unaware of what has transpired with in. Before them, at the other end of the bridge, stands Ser Henry Staedmon with six Lannister guards.

"Ser Henry!" Balon shouts. "I heard you had left the city!"

"You heard wrong!" the knight replies. "We're under attack. I must see the queen."

"The queen is in labor! She's not to be disturbed. Your place is on the walls, defending her in battle!" The group of knights pause. The largest one impulsively marches forward.

"We weren't asking!" a familiar voice bellows.

"The Hound!" Balon shouts, drawing his sword. The huge knight tears off his helmet and tosses it from the bridge, revealing the scarred face beneath.

"The Hound is dead. If you want to fight Sandor Clegane, come at me."

Balon suddenly feels himself shoved aside. The Mountain lurches forward, out onto the bridge. Somewhere in his dead and rotted brain, he recognizes his brother.

Halfway across the bridge, the Mountain halts. Brienne looks to Sandor who motions her on. She marches forward and steps past the huge knight unnoticed. Arya, Elia and Myles follow. Ben Coldwater, however, ignores Sandor's warning, yelling a battle cry and lunging forward. The Mountain does not move and Ben's sword cuts through his stomach. The knight looks up, confused, as the attack has no effect. Before he can recover, two huge hands have seized him and tossed him from the bridge like a stray toy.

Now only the Clegane brothers remain. Sandor at last draws _Widow's Wail_, but does not move. In response, the undead Gregor tears his breastplate off and pulls the imbedded sword free, revealing the rotted, putrid flesh beneath. Lastly, he removes his helmet, tossing it from the bridge. Sandor stares at the horrifying visage that was his brother.

"Congratulations, you're finally uglier than me. Now are you going to do something or just stand there all day?"

The Mountain lumbers forward, each pounding step shaking the bridge. Sandor dodges, cutting open his exposed side. Loose flesh and intestines slip out of the wound, but it does not stop the next attack. The brothers' swords meet, once, twice, and again. The Mountain's attack are bone-crushingly heavy, but slow and poorly aimed. Sandor cuts him again and again, to no avail. Finally, his sword misses a parry. Gregor's blade glances his shoulder, but his own is free to strike at the wrist, severing the Mountain's sword hand.

He raises the bloody stump to his face, unsure of what has happened, and Sandor plunges Widow's Wail straight through his chest with enough force to knock the huge knight to the ground and bury the Valyrian sword's tip into the stone of the bridge. He steps back, and watches his brother, pinned to the ground, struggle to break free. The rotten mouth drops in an inhuman howl, purple bile oozing out.

Strike now, Sandor thinks. Take off the head and that should kill even whatever this is Gregor's become. But instead, he turns away.

"You're no true knight. You don't deserve a knight's death. And you sure as hell won't get it from me."

At the end of the bridge, three more Queensguard stand to block the path into the Holdfast. Arya, Elia and Myles rush to meet them in battle, allowing Brienne to run on. Myles' mace and Elia's spear match against the blades of Ser Andrik the Unsmiling and Ser Josmyn Peckledon but Arya immediately chooses her foe – Ser Ilyn Payne. She has never forgotten his face.

The headsman is not so good a swordsman as an executioner, and Arya quickly pushes him onto the defensive, driving him back into a corner until she is able to cut at his legs, dropping him to the ground. Before the final blow, however, she hears a shout from Elia. Turning, she sees Ser Josymn attacking her and thrusts. Her sword sticks in him and for a moment, she sees his face through the helmet. So young… She lets go of the sword and he topples back, over the ledge into the moat. Seeing Myles has bested Andrik, she turns back to Ser Ilyn and draws _Needle_.

Stalking nearer to the mute knight, she marks no fear on his face. Reaching her hand to her ear, she pulls, and the face of Henry Staedmon slips away. He looks at her in confusion, and she waits until the realization of memory slowly dawns in his eyes. And then _Needle_ cuts a thin line across his throat.

Within the entrance to the Holdfast, Ser Balon Swann is the last man in Brienne's way.

"The war is over, ser!" Brienne extends a hand to him. "It is your duty to protect your queen. Let us take her to safety. I made a vow to Jaime Lannister."

"Then your word is no better than his!" Balon attacks with his mace. "I am no Kingslayer! I will not yield!"

"So be it," Brienne blocks his attack. They circle each other, each striking and parrying in turn, mace against sword. But Balon's mace is not Valyrian steel. After three blows, _Oathbreaker_ severs the tip of his weapon, sending in clattering across the floor. Brienne looks at her foe, beaten yet standing tall between her and his master, his white cape hanging heavy. A man of honor, Jaime had said. A better wearer of the white than he had managed.

"Let it end, Balon," Brienne pleads.

"The end or no, I am no traitor." He reaches for the sword at his waist, but Brienne is faster. When the others enter, they find her standing over the Lord Commander's body. Kneeling sadly, she places her hand over his face, gently closing the knight's eyes.

Arya barely notices the solemnity. "The queen's chambers are this way."

She takes the lead, and throws open the doors to the room to reveal the carnage within. She finds Cersei's body propped up against the balcony. But after all the years of waiting, all the nights spent saying her prayer… she feels nothing. Nothing until she sees the view beyond the balcony – the dragon and a city on fire.

"We need to leave," she turns back to the others, who are kneeling by one of the midwives, still clinging to life.

"The child?" Brienne asks desperately. "Did it come?" The dying woman cannot answer her. She only points a shaking finger in the direction that Genna Lannister had disappeared. The chase goes on.

* * *

**Blackwater Bay**

At the sight of the dragon, the attack had begun. The Farman and Greyjoy flagships, _Ironbreaker_ and _The Salt Queen_ lead, neck and neck, each wishing to be the first to strike. Euron's ships guarding the harbor are slow to respond as they come under assault. The men on the decks scramble to launch jars of black fog at the approaching fleet. But it is two late. While the diversion slows the assault, Sandro Qo's small swan boats flit across the waves beneath the smoke, cutting their way swift and true to the enemy ships. Grappling hooks fly and the Summer Islanders are swarming the decks of Euron's ships before they know what's happening.

On the deck of _Ironbreaker_, Humfrey gags as the oily haze washes over the deck. The boat swings hard to one side as Lord Farman tries to avoid the attack. The Salt Queen presses on, disappearing into the black fog. At its helm, Yara Greyjoy thinks only of one thing – ending her uncle once and for all. Sword in one hand, she presses on at ramming speed into the smoke and flame.

* * *

**The Streets of King's Landing**

There is fire everywhere. The streets are overflowing with terrified civilians, fleeing their burning homes to find more carnage in the streets. The men of the Golden Company force their way through, they are nearly to the gate now. But suddenly, the panicked smallfolk are gone, and a wall of red-robed men stands in their way.

"You cannot flee the day of reckoning!" the priest leading them declares. "The Lord of Light has sent his champion to judge us all! Azor Ahai is purifying this city!"

"That thing up there?" Strickland strides to the front, pointing at the sky. "That isn't god, my friend. That's death."

"Only to those who do not believe!" the priest brandishes a smoldering knife as another explosion rocks the ground beneath their feet.

Without hesitation, Strickland draws Blackfyre and cuts down the priest before he can respond. The other followers stand back, shocked, as their leader falls to the ground.

"I guess he didn't believe hard enough," Strickland shakes his head as his men behind him lower their gilded spears. "Now kindly step out of the way before any more of you get purified."

* * *

**The Depths of the Red Keep**

Tyrion holds the torch high above his head, his stunted legs desperately trying to keep their footing as he moves through the passages, as fast as a dwarf and a half-dead woman can run. He knows these ways. It should not be too much further until they reach the Holdfast.

Suddenly, hearing movement in front of him, he freezes. A figure rounds the corner, but Ellaria lunges, dagger in hand. He hears a shriek and a body hitting the floor. And then a baby crying. Rushing forward, he finds the former prisoner standing over her victim. His torch illuminates the ground. As it does, his jaw drops and his throat cries out in wordless grief. His aunt Genna lies on her back, hand grasping at the wall, blood pouring out onto the ground. And clutched tightly to her chest, the tiniest bundle, that can only be one thing.

He rushes to her side, and sees her eyes widen in recognition. With faint strength, she offers up the child to him. He drops the torch to the ground and extends his hands to let the weight pass to him. He looks down. Golden hair. Green eyes. A boy. A dwarf. He looks back to Genna, and kneels to take her hand, feeling the warmth already slipping away.

"I'm sorry," Genna whispers. "Please… be better…"

As her hand slips away, Tyrion hears more people approaching. Ellaria turns away, knife outstretched. He motions her to wait, but she ignores him, rushing on into the dark. He hears a shout and sounds of a struggle, then more torches come into view. A large blonde woman in armor is dragging Ellaria along by the wrist. Brienne of Tarth, he remembers the face. He does not know the two girls or the knight with her. But he does recognize the Hound. He turns away, nervously, shielding the babe from their eyes.

"Is that the child, imp?" Brienne asks, throwing Ellaria to the floor. "Jaime's child."

Cautiously, Tyrion nods. He can trust her, he hopes. Jaime had sworn by this woman's honor. Though he certainly does not like to see her with the Hound.

"Cersei's dead," she states, bluntly. The words hit Tyrion like a brick wall, as if someone had ripped his brain out of his skull. He does not know what to do. "The dragons are destroying the city. We have a boat waiting on the beach. I promised your brother I would bring his child to safety. You'll come with us too, if you want to live."

In a daze, with no options left, Tyrion says a silent farewell to his aunt and steps in line behind these strangers, child in his hands, following them back to the light.

* * *

**Atop Drogon**

The heat rising from the burning streets below does not faze Daenerys as she circles in the sky. Half the city is ablaze now, and the bursts of wildfire only spread it further. Caches they had planned to use against her men, no doubt, she thinks. But after today there will be no Lannisters left to kill any more of her friends. At long last, the debt will be paid. Spurning Drogon on, they turn and fly on to the Red Keep.

It looms up before her now, far uglier than Viserys had ever described it. A symbol of centuries of violence and oppression. This is the wheel. This is the game. And it ends today.

* * *

**The Black Cells**

Alys leads Missandei and Ser Argilac through the dungeons, past cells full of screaming prisoners. But they do not have time to save them all. Turning a corner, two guards try to stop them, but Argilac cuts them down before they can even draw their swords.

"It's not much further!" Alys shouts, her bare feet pattering on the stone. Missandei imagines Grey Worm in her mind, clearer now than every night they had spent apart. She remembers the way he had kissed her that last day on Dragonstone. She remembers his face in every suitor she had rejected, waiting for him. And now, just one more door. Then the building shakes. And something roars.

"What is that?" Argilac asks.

She knows the sound. It seems a lifetime away. But then she remembers. Dragons. And before she can scream, the tunnel in front of them explodes into fire.

* * *

**The Walls of the Red Keep**

The floor beneath Qyburn's feet shakes as dragonfire tears through the castle, but he does not look up, his aged fingers painstakingly struggling to repair the firing mechanism on the scorpion bolt before him. He had returned to find the walls abandoned, their guards fled the moment they realized their sabatogued weapons were useless. Euron's work, no doubt. But there is no time to ponder why.

"Move faster!" he shouts back at Boros and Preston, the undead knights lurching forward carrying a huge white bolt – carved from the weirwood at Raventree Hall. He points directions as they load the missile onto the scorpion, frantically keeping one eye on the sky. He cannot see the dragon. But he can see the devastation. Who knows how many are dead now? Thousands, for sure. And the rest to follow if nothing is done.

And then the dragon is back.

"Move, move!" he shouts, pushing aside the knights to climb behind the controls. He pulls back on the level and watches the beast's approach.

_We could have won_, he thinks. _If the scorpions had worked… Perhaps my ghost will be left to haunt the walls. It would serve them all right._

"Left!" he shouts, the knights shifting the aim of the scorpion. "Hold!" It's nearly upon them now. A single bead of sweat rolls down his brow. He can feel the deathly heat from the streets below. His hands twitch at the fingers. The dragon's mouth open. He sees sparks. He prays Alys and his works have escaped. He curses Euron. And he fires.

The force of the launch throws Qyburn out of the seat and onto the ground. His skull cracks against the stone. There must be blood, but he only hears the most devastating sound he has ever known. Looking up he sees the dragon, a pure white spar piercing its breast, falling from the sky. Straight towards him.

_I won. We lost, but I won._

* * *

**The Beach**

On the shore of the bay, beneath the blazing ruins of the Red Keep, Davos waits behind a rock, hidden with the stolen sailboat that had carried the infiltrators here. He has sat here all this while, shuddering to hear the explosions and screams from the city above, remembering that horrible night on the Blackwater, when his son had died. He prays he may yet escape to return to what is left of his family.

"Seaworth!" He hears the shout. Moving from his hiding place, he sees Brienne, sword in hand, rushing from the mouth of the cave, kicking up sand. Behind her runs Arya and Elia, helping along a haggard woman he does not know and one he recognizes from long ago – the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. And in his arms, a baby. Sandor and Ser Myles are the last to appear.

Brienne reaches him first, throwing her sword down into the boat and takes hold of the bow, dragging it through the sand towards the water.

"My lady, the bay!" Davos points to the warships in battle.

"Can you get us past them?"

He looks out to the battle, then back at the weary and scarred faces pushing the boat. And the babe in Tyrion's arms.

"I can try."

Further down the beach, the sand shakes as a herd of battle elephants thunder down to freedom, panicked by the chaos they have escaped. Their handlers struggle to calm them as the members of the Golden Company begin to congregate around Harry Strickland, who walks to the edge of the water, his armored feet sinking into the wet sand. He notes a lone sailboat slipping away from shore.

"General!" Rolly Duckworth shouts down from atop an elephant. "Our ships in the harbor are burning!"

"Where do we go now, ser?" Grif asks.

"We stay here," Strickland sits down in the sand, at last letting his feet relax. "We wait and see who is standing when the ash settles. And then we will do what we always do. Serve the highest bidder."

* * *

**Atop Rhaegal**

Jon can see the smoke before he sees the city. And in that moment, his heart breaks a million times. Rhaegal lets out a mournful howl, as if the dragon can smell the death that lies ahead. He tries to justify it in his mind, any rationale but the obvious fact that lay before him. He was too late. And now he has only a short flight to decide how to face the woman he loves. One short flight that will be an eternity long.

* * *

**The Ruins of the Red Keep**

Half of the castle is gone, resting in a pile of rubble, fires still burning in the ruins, choked out by a heavy cloud of smoke and soot. Up from the open maw rise three figures, caked white in dust and ash – Alys, Missandei and Argilac. Distraught, Missandei runs forward, tears cutting lines through the dirt on her cheeks. She tears through the rubble with bear hands, fingers torn and bleeding from sharp rocks. She had been so close… so close…

"We can't stay here…" Alys urges, impatient.

"No!" Missandei hurls a rock in the girl's direction. "We stay until I find him!" Argilac nods solemnly in agreement, but does not move to stop the little bird from running away into the smoke. He moves to help Missandei clear rubble of what was only a short while earlier the Black Cells. And then they see him.

Grey Worm. His face is swollen, bruised and burned, but Missandei knows it is her love. She leans over the body, still half-buried, desperately wetting his face with her tears to wipe away the dust and matted blood. Slowly, his eyes crack open and his mouth parts in a smile.

"Missandei… my butterfly," he coughs, and she tries to hush him. "I swore… I swore I would not die until I saw your face again."

Desperate, Missandei tears at the rocks trapping him, but even if they could be moved, it would be no use. She grabs his free hand and holds it tight, staring into his eyes as the life blinks out of them. But the smile on his face never fades. She feels Argilac's hand on her shoulder. For a long while, she cannot say how long, they stay here like this. And then she rises. For she knows who's hand has wrought this.

She walks down through the smoke through the rubble, stepping gently across shattered glass, crumbles stones, and more burnt, crushed and mangled corpses than she cares to count. At last she arrives at the ruins of the castle walls. The heat of the smoldering wreckage here dispels any memory of the winter child. Heavy white flakes float in the air. Snow or ash, who can tell?

Missandei continues to walk, past Alys, who sits, looking lost beside a broken scorpion and the broken body of Qyburn. For above it all lies the lifeless form of a great black dragon that will never fly again. She runs her hand along the scales, now cold, their fire burnt out, tracing along the spine until she reaches the head. And there, arms draped across the closed eyes of her fallen child, Daenerys Targaryen lies, weeping, bald and covered in ash.

Daenerys looks up to see her long-lost friend appear out of the haze, looking like a ghost, covered in soot and followed by a looming specter of a knight. She wants to rise to greet them, but the weight is just too heavy. She cannot bring herself to let go of Drogon. And Missandei stops. She stands there, fists tightly clenched.

At last, her fist opens and a small object falls down into the ash before Daenerys. Dulled now, it still glistens in the rubble – the silver pin of the Queen's Hand. She looks up to see the grief on Missandei's face. And on her lips, a single word.

"Why?"


	34. Queen of the Ashes

**The Ruins of the Red Keep**

It looks as if hell has come to King's Landing. Rhaegal descends through the thick layer of smoke, flying low over the burning city. He can hear the screams of desperate people below, but he knows there is something he must do first. As the Red Keep comes into view, he tries to remember how he had imagined it as a child. Whatever it was then, though, is gone now. The legendary castle is half destroyed, its walls toppled and its towers aflame.

As he draws nearer, he sees a large dark shape lying on the ground. Rhaegal recognizes it first, and lets loose a great screech of grief. Jon cannot bear to look as his dragon comes to land beside the corpse of its fallen brother. But as Jon dismounts, his boots steaming on contact with the scorched ground, he must look.

He kicks through ash, following Drogon's body to the head. There he finds Daenerys, kneeling and weeping in the rubble – her head shaved and marked with red arcane symbols. Missandei stands nearby, with Ser Argilac Horpe on guard. It seems like a lifetime since Jon met them on Dragonstone. He struggles to find words to speak.

"Daenerys..." is all he can say, choking on soot as he breathes in.

She looks up, eyes stained by smoke and tears. "Jon… It's over. We won."

"No," Jon shakes his head as she rises to embrace him. "This is not the war that I fought."

Daenerys does not seem to have a reply, at first. He sees a stranger behind her eyes. But one who is all too familiar. Finally, she speaks.

"The people are free."

"The people are dead."

"They were slaves, and their chains have been melted away. Some may have died, but in death at least they will no longer face Cersei's cruelty."

_She really believes it_, Jon thinks. "Ser Argilac, find a cell still intact and take the queen there to await judgement," he commands. "I will be searching for survivors." Daenerys' jaw drops in a silent cry as the knight steps forward. She looks desperately to Jon, who turns away, unable to watch. She pulls her halberd from the ground, threatening the approaching knight.

"You are sworn to me!" she shouts.

"You swore me to the service of Lady Missandei."

Argilac and Daenerys both turn to look at Missandei. Silently, she nods, and Daenerys' grip on the halberd gives way. Argilac knocks it to the ground and, tearing a strip away from his ragged white cloak, gently binds her hands behind her back. As Jon walks to Rhaegal, the knight leads the queen away until they vanish into the ash and smoke.

* * *

**The Kingswood**

The destruction of the city is far removed from the peace of Gendry Baratheon's camp. By a quiet steam, Sam and Sarella watch Mallora Hightower teach Garin the ways of his Rhoynish ancestors' water magic. Young Edric Dayne serenades a young Horpe spearwoman. Gendry anxiously awaits the return of his lover. And in Sansa Stark's tent, Tywin Dondarrion slips inside to answer a secretive message.

Lying on Sansa's bed in a revealing turquoise gown, her long blonde hair let down, Wynafryd Manderly waits.

"My lady!" Tywin gasps and drops to his knees at the sight of his former betrothed.

"My lordling. Come here," Wynafryd laughs. Tywin awkwardly stumbles to the bedside, sheepishly trying to hide his attraction. "Why are you here?"

"I told my lord father I was pregnant," she smiles, seductively.

"Are you?"

"No," she pulls him down atop her, and soon feels her efforts have been successful. "But we can change that soon enough. We are to be married, remember? And our child will one day rule these lands."

"But the betrothal was a ruse!" Tywin protests nervously, even as Wynafryd pulls his face to her bosom. "And Lord Gendry has reclaimed his titles from my father."

"Oh, we can change all that," Wynafryd begins to tug at his laces. It is at that moment that the tent flap swings open once more, revealing Sansa and Arianne Martell. "My lady, beg your pardon!" She jumps up, pushing Tywin off the bed. "I did not expect your return so soon!"

"I need a space to speak," Sansa glares at the two young nobles. "In private."

Arianne smiles as the two interlopers flee the tent. "I remember when love was like that. Those were good days."

"Love is never so pure," Sansa shakes her head, pouring two glasses of wine. "And it is very rarely true." She notes her hand shaking as buried memories threaten to flood back.

"What happened to you?" Arianne asks. The question freezes Sansa's blood.

"What do you mean?"

"I saw your scars, when you bathed. Terrible things have been done to you. I should know," she removes the silver mask, revealing the shocking scars and mangled ear that it disguises. "I have felt such pain of men."

Sansa does not know what to say. After all this time, no one had ever asked her what had happened. Not even her family. Until now. She sits.

"Many things. Many men. I was just a girl, in love with a prince. And then a girl who only wanted to go home. But now I am a woman, and we cannot change the past."

"No, but we can change the future." Arianne takes her hand. "We can make a safe home for all the little girls of tomorrow."

Sansa smiles in return. But she has learned long ago, there is no room for friends in this game. "When the battle is done, what are your intentions with my brother?"

"Your cousin," she corrects her.

"He is my blood all the same," Sansa insists. "I love him no less. And I will defend him no less." She glares pointedly. "From any threat."

"I wish to see him on the throne, as is his birthright," Arianne drinks. "And if my… diminished features due not alarm him so, I would share his marriage bed, were he to have me," she presses her dress tightly over her curves, as if to display herself for approval. "I assure you while my face is marred, the rest of me works excellently."

"I fear King Jon is very much in love with Daenerys."

"Perhaps," Arianne demurs. "But nonetheless, I think it wise we become better acquainted. This is a hard world as we both know, and allies are hard to come by."

"Indeed," Sansa finishes her glass and is reaching for more wine when Mycah enters.

"My ladies," he bows. "Lady Brienne's party has returned."

Arianne readjusts her mask as she follows Sansa and Mycah out into the yard. There, Sansa runs to embrace Arya and commend Brienne. But she does not see looks of victory on their faces. In the midst of them stands Tyrion Lannister. Her former husband looks as if he's aged a decade or more since they parted. And in his arms, he clutches the tiniest of babes. But then Brienne steps forward, blocking her view.

"My lady, we must speak. Things have changed."

* * *

**Winterfell**

Bran wheels his chair clumsily through the godswood until he comes to rest at the foot of the weirwood. Theon Greyjoy follows close behind him. His face is hidden beneath his frosted steel wolf helm, but his nervousness is clear.

"You're troubled, Theon." Bran notes.

"Something's happened, hasn't it? Something you've felt. I can tell."

"Yes," Bran answers, pointing to a mound of dirt beside the pond. "Dig here."

Without question, Theon kneels by the water and begins to chip away at the frozen soil with a dagger as Bran watches. Slowly, the earth breaks away and his gloved hands tug free a heavy sack. Catching a glimpse inside, he sees a collection of some type of unearthly seed pod – white wooden veins wrapping around hardened blood-red sap. Theon holds one up to the weirwood above them, and there is no confusion about where it is from. As he hands the sack to Bran, he sees Obara Sand approaching with Ser Kyle Condon and Winterfell's surviving maesters – Henly and Medrick.

"Prince Bran, you should not have gone out to the Winter's Town today," Medrick chides his ward. "This cold is one of the worst on record, a lad of your condition…"

"My people need to see me," Bran cuts him off. "I lived through the long night of the dead, Maester Medrick. I think I can handle a small chill."

"What are those, your grace?" Henly points at the pods.

"Nothing of importance," Bran shrugs. "I would like a moment of peace to pray. Please leave me be. I will hold counsel later." Slowly, the others turn to leave. "You too, Theon. No one will harm me here."

Reluctantly, Theon concedes and at last Bran is alone. He holds the pods tightly in his lap, listening to the soft wind blow and feeling the cold on his face. He waits to hear something, anything. Instead, he notices a line of small footprints in the snow leading away from the tree. Leaning forward, he pushes his chair off the path and wheels determinedly through the snow, following the strange feet away into the shrubbery.

* * *

**The Ruins of the Red Keep**

As the sun sets, Jon stands alone in the throne room. The wall behind the Iron Throne has crumbled, torn away by dragonfire, letting white flakes float down onto the floor. Ash or snow, Jon cannot tell. Likely both, for it is frigid here, even as wildfire still burns across the city. The throne so many songs had been sung of sits before him – an ugly mess of twisted metal.

_This is what they all fought for? _He wishes he could melt it all away, this steely creature that had taken away both the parents who raised him and his true blood he never knew. And now it had taken Daenerys as well…

"Your grace," He turns to see Ser Argilac standing with a prisoner in the singed uniform of the City Watch. His face is scarred with fire, his cloak is gone, but the broach that sealed it remains, a blue beetle.

"Ser Jon Bettley," the burned knight kneels. "I am… I was Commander of the City Watch. Please, your grace, most of my men are dead or fled. But I have seen you in the rubble, freeing survivors. Let me pledge those swords I still command to help you save what lives that are left."

"I accept your pledge," Jon nods, cautiously. These are Lannister men. But they have no one left to serve. And the knight cowering before him will surely not cross a dragon.

"Thank you, your grace," Bettley scurries away, but Argilac remains.

"The queen wishes to see you."

"I do not wish to see her!" Jon yells, impulsively. Pausing, he calms himself down. "I'm sorry, ser. You have done good work. But I cannot speak to her. Not yet." Argilac silently bows and leaves him be, as Jon turns back to the throne and speaks to no one. "I do not know what to say…"

* * *

**The Red Army Camp**

The smoke in the distance nearly blots out the rising sun. Even now, the great city in the distance is still burning. Damion Lannister stands on a hill, examining the sight. It seems that his queen has chosen to win the war all by herself. This is no concern of Damion's, he has no lust for battle, nor glory. But it leaves him with the question of what to do. He had expected, once the attack was over, for Daenerys to fly Drogon to their camp. But night had passed now, and still she does not come. The armies grow restless.

Damion runs his hands through his thin gold hair as he turns back to his commanders - Ser Carnegie Rowan and Malakho, with his squire, the young Lord Robert Brax.

"Where is Ser Tybolt?" he asks, looking about.

"The bearded knight is in grief," Malakho answers. "He stays drunk and does not leave his tent." Damion does not like the sound of that. _The heir to Crakehall was not taking his father's death well. He is a lord now, and ought to begin to act like it._

"Is the war over?" Robert asks, hopefully, shivering in his thin red robes.

"It appears so," Damion answers. "We will wait another day to hear from the queen. Then we will march."

"And what of the prisoners?" Ser Carnegie mentions. Damion had nearly forgotten their captives.

"The priests will be sorry to have nothing to offer burnings for," he shakes his head, thinking. "But execute them nonetheless, or they will prove a liability once we reach the city."

Ser Carnegie nods without question and marches off to do his bidding. Malakho rides away to pass the orders on to the Dothraki. Alone with his squire, Damion simply returns to his hill, to watch the horizon once more, eyes sharply watching for the sight of distant wings.

* * *

**The Ruins of the Red Keep**

Jon did not mean to sleep. But he finds himself awaking at the sound of Missandei's voice, slumped over on the steps of the throne.

"Your grace, they came in the early morning," she is saying.

"Who?" He hurries to his feet, the rush leaving him dizzy. She helps him steady himself. "Who is here? Our armies?"

"No. The Golden Company."

Jon remembers that name. He remembers the trumpets, the elephants, the flaming arrows and the gilded armor that had laid waste to his army. And he remembers the boy with the blue hair, who the dragons feared. They had started all of this. Gripping _Longclaw_ at his side, he marches forward. "Take me to them."

Ser Argilac and Jon Bettley are waiting there already. There are only seven men and two elephants waiting at the ruins of the castle's walls, but Jon knows there are untold numbers just out of sight. He can tell by the golden rings looped around their arms that these must be sergeants and commanders. But there is one among them who stands out – the squire from before. He steps down to greet them.

"Halt!" a bowman shouts from atop an elephant.

"No, no, Balaq, it is fine," a short man with wispy hair commands. "This is the King in the North. Show him the respect he is due." He steps forward to bow courteously. "I am Harry Strickland, Captain-General of the Golden Company."

Jon is surprised and suspicious of the little man. He does not look a warrior. "You were aligned with Cersei not a day past. What do you want with me?"

"I am sure you know of our reputation," Strickland strolls amiably nearer, though Jon keeps his eyes on the squire and the archers. "We are, as you can see, without an employer. And a Golden Company with no gold is a sorry sight, I promise you. We wish to serve."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Because you are a king alone in a ruined city with only a rabble to defend you. Because your dragon queen is not here with you and you have been saving those she burned, meaning your allegiances are no longer aligned. Because you are surrounded on all sides by her armies, who I doubt will be pleased to find their queen locked up wherever you're keeping her. And," he leans close, whispering in Jon's ear now. "Because I know more about you than you know yourself."

Jon abruptly steps back. He wishes his advisors were here. But all around him are the faces of strangers. Sighing, he accepts Strickland's hand.

"I accept your service, General."

"We are honored to serve," Strickland declares, and the sergeants kneel. "Grif!" He calls back. The squire steps forward, in his hands he holds a black Valyrian blade, with a ruby-crusted dragon hilt. He looks about Jon's own age, and does not break eye contact. "I believe this is yours," the general hands over _Blackfyre _and joins his sergeants in kneeling. The sword feels hot in Jon's hand as the Golden Company speak in unison.

"Beneath the gold, the bitter steel."

* * *

**The Harbor**

The dragon's fleet waits in the harbor amidst the ruined wrecks of Euron's ships. Yara Greyjoy, livid and impatient, stalks the deck of her uncle's dreaded _Silence. _Lord Sebaston Farman and Humfrey Hightower approach.

"Still no sign of the Crow's Eye?" Humfrey asks.

"No!" Yara glares, angrily. "Nor has anyone seen Daenerys. The men grow restless."

"We ought not enter the city until we know it is safe," Lord Farman warns.

"You may wait as long as you like, lander," Yara spits. "But my men and I will not wait past noontide." Their attention is drawn away by shouts from men on the other ships.

"It looks like the wait is over!" Humfrey shouts, climbing onto the bow to get a better look – five armored battle elephants lumber heavily down towards the docks, led by a man in gilded armor on a horse.

"Who is that?" Farman is confused.

"Golden Company," Yara snarls, leaping over the edge to a waiting rowboat that swiftly carries them to shore.

"Where is Queen Daenerys?" she shouts as they reach land, pushing the others aside, and drawing her sword to confront Harry Strickland. Three arrows bury in the dirt at her feet.

"Calm yourself, sea queen," Strickland smiles. "We are not enemies."

At that, a dragon's roar splits open the sky.

"There she is!" Humfrey points up. But when Yara looks, the beast descending from the clouds is green, not black.

"That's not her," she murmurs.

Rhaegal lands with a crash in front of the elephants and Jon Snow can be seen on the dragon's back. He looks down at Yara.

"Where is Daenerys?" she calls to him.

"Daenerys Targaryen awaits judgement for her actions in the destruction of this city," Jon declares, coldly.

"By whose order?"

"By my own - Aemon Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne." Jon points a dark sword in Yara's direction. "Do not enter the city until you are ready to bend the knee."

With that, Rhaegal takes flight as quickly as he landed, leaving the elephants to stand guard. Yara turns away, furious, to find Humfrey and Lord Farman at a loss for words.

"W…what do we do know?" Farman stammers.

"We do what you love you much, Sebaston. Wait. We have three armies marching on King's Landing. Once they arrive, the bastard will see reason."

* * *

**The Kingswood**

The sounds of the departing army do not disturb Tyrion. He sits alone in a tent, holding the baby in his arms. A dwarf_. _A girl. Jaime's girl…

_You will need a name, little one. But not a Lannister name. A new name, for a new era. Free of my father's shadow at last._

"Tyrion," Sansa enters quietly. "You should come with us. We are sailing to the capital, to meet my brother before the army arrives."

_I only just now escaped that cursed place. _He shakes his head and holds the child tighter.

"Unless you can give it milk, I fear a wetnurse will be of more value," Sansa gently pulls the baby into her own arms, smiling. "You were Daenerys' Hand. Your words would be dearly heard by us all."

Tyrion scowls, gesturing at his empty mouth.

"I'm sorry… But I can tell your mind is not gone." She takes his hand in hers. "We have to build a new world. We need your help."

_A new world. _He looks at the baby for a final time. _For her. _He nods, and follows Sansa out of the tent.

* * *

**Highgarden**

Disturbance is prevalent throughout the camps remaining around the castle walls. But only Ser Bronn of the Blackwater knows the truth. Rumors run rampant now. All will know soon enough, and then decisions must be made. He returns to his quarters to find Art Hightower and Talla Tarly waiting for him, as requested. These youths are the most rational nobles in the Reach, as far as Bronn can tell, and he will need their support for the days to come.

"There is news," he declares.

"Of the battle?" Art asks. "What of my uncles?"

"I do not know their fates," Bronn states, bluntly. "But one thing's for sure. They've lost. The dragon's army overran them and marches now upon the capital."

Talla lets out a muffled cry. Art grits his teeth.

"What does that mean?" Talla asks.

"It means soon, perhaps as we speak, the Targaryens will rule Westeros once again. So it's time I come clean." He tosses a scroll to each of them, sealed with the marks of their respective homes. They peel open the missives: alerts from their parents regarding Arianne Martell and Sam Tarly's revelation of the true heir.

"I didn't want this causing a fuss 'til it was necessary," Bronn explains. "Maester gave all the missives to me."

"What does this mean?" Art is lost. "What do we do?"

"Well," Bronn reaches for a sack and dumps it out on the table, revealing dozens more missives, to every visiting lord and lady, all with the same news. "That's for us to decide."

* * *

**Beneath the Red Keep**

They had spent so long searching the city, the men had only now begun to search the depths of the castle. That was when they found them and had summoned Jon to deal with the matter himself. The rubble had crushed the ancient dragon skulls, but untouched beside them, in a circle of blood stains and arcane etchings, sit Euron Greyjoy and the red priest Moqorro. With them lies a mangled body of a woman who Jon Bettley, after vomiting on the floor, had managed to identify as the lady Leyla Hightower.

Now Jon carefully examines the former king and his priest, who have not spoken a word all this time. Cautiously, he kneels to look Euron in his one good eye. He notes a trace of what looks like shining metal bleeding out from beneath his eyepatch. The pirate smiles, eerily.

"So you're Jon Snow. Or should I call you Aemon? I think we could be friends, you know."

"Take them away!" Jon commands, standing. The new prisoners do not resist, and they so no more. But as they are dragged away, Euron continues to watch him, smiling all the way. Jon shivers, and not from the cold.

* * *

**Blackwater Bay**

A fog has descended over the bay as the _Frosted Fury_ cuts through the water, waves breaking over its white plaster hull. Mycah Manderly stands at the helm. Samwell Tarly, queasy, leans over the edge while Harlan Dondarrion stands at the bow, his long black cape flapping in the salty wind. Below deck, Tyrion and Arianne rest. Sansa has watched them all carefully. But for now her attention is only on her sister. She takes a seat beside Arya, who has brooded silently ever since they left.

"What's wrong?" she asks. "Did something happen in the city?"

"Cersei is dead. So's the Mountain and Ilyn Payne. And the baby is safe. We did what we went to do and only lost one man. A successful mission."

"Then why…"

"I should be with Gendry," Arya answers, bluntly. As they speak, the young lord is leading the combined forces of Dorne and the Stormlands in march on the capital. "He is surrounded by his enemies. And I'm on a boat."

"He has his sister," Sansa tries to reassure her. "Right now, Jon needs you more."

Arya looks up to her with sad eyes. "But that's not his name, is it? What if he's different now? He's not our brother anymore."

"No," Sansa hugs her. And, surprisingly, Arya returns the embrace. "He will always be Jon. He will always be family." It feels strange, to hold each other like this, after all these years. Like true sisters. It is a good feeling.

"There's something ahead!" Lord Dondarrion shouts from the bow. Mycah rushes forward, with Arya close behind.

"There should be no rocks in these waters," Davos calls from the rear of the boat.

"That's no rock," Arya murmurs as the silhouette of a much larger warship appears before them.

"Brace for impact!" Mycah shouts, but there is little time to respond, and most on the deck are knocked off their feet, Sansa among them. As she steadies herself, she looks up at the great three-decked galley with which they have collided.

"Who goes there?" A voice calls from above. Over the edge of the upper deck, several archers appear, bows notched. Between them appears a man in flashing black and gold armor, a golden cloak draped over his shoulders. His helm is lifted, to reveal ebony skin beneath – the lord of the Three Towers, "Black Tom" Costayne.

"We are lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms, come to see the true rulers of our land seated upon the throne!" Harlan answers. "Who do you serve, Costayne?"

"This is the Oldtown Fleet!" the captain answers. "And we serve the dragons, as do all honest men. These waters are treacherous. Come with us, and we will take you to the city."

Arya and Sansa exchange a nervous glance. More nobles and more armies means more spinning cogs in the days to come. And if the choice must be made, which dragon will the Voice of Oldtown speak for?

* * *

**The Harbor**

Jon drops down out of the sky on Rhaegal's back. He had been notified that a new fleet had arrived in the harbor. And with it – his sisters. He sees the new ships that have joined the Greyjoys and Farmans – flying banners of House Hightower, Costayne, Bulwer and Redwyne. The elephants continue to bar entrance to the city, and now his new men stand there at attention – at least two score of the Golden Company have assembled, with another score of ragtag City Watch. Rhaegal lands before them all.

Jon dismounts and approaches the nobles assembled before them, surrounded by their own knights and guardians. Some he has seen before. Now they are joined by new, strange faces. One of them waches him carefully, an elegant young woman with her face half hidden by a silver vulture mask. But his attention leads him straight to those he knows best – Arya, Sansa and Sam. Remembering his place, however, he remains formal and authoritative, addressing all the guests.

"Lord, ladies, welcome. I am sure you all have many questions…"

"Where is Queen Daenerys?" Yara shouts.

"She is safe and awaits judgement. I hope to have your counsel…"

"Judgement for what crimes?" Yara shoves an intervening Lord Farman aside to confront Jon. "She won the war! Why are you speaking to us and not her?"

"Mind your tongue, Lady Greyjoy!" Sansa shouts. "You are speaking to a king."

"I'm a queen myself, wolf-bitch," Yara snarls. Mycah, hand on his sword, tries to step between the women, but Yara pushes him back. "I'd kill you all save for the mercy you showed my brother."

"Aemon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne," Arianne steps forward. "What happens to Daenerys will be his choice to make." All eyes turn back to Jon.

"Please, put your swords away," Jon begs. If his words are not enough to convince even the most reckless Ironborn, the taught gilded bows and the dragon behind him are. "In the morning, I will host a counsel of lords and ladies. Until then, there are quarters prepared for each of you. My men will show you the way. And Lady Greyjoy?" He glares at Yara. "I hold your uncle as well. Threaten your peers in my presence again, and you will never get your vengeance."

Sansa and Sam both open their mouths to speak to him, but he turns back to Rhaegal once more. The newly arrived nobles can only watch as the dragon disappears back into the sky, across the burnt city towards the ruined castle where it comes to roost.

* * *

**The Ruins of King's Landing **

Tyrion rocks in the back of the rickety cart the men of the Golden Company have commandeered to haul the nobles to their housing. He can tell that the likes of Harlan Dondarrion and Tom Costayne recoil at such filthy means of travel. But he has known far worse in his day. As they enter the scorched ruins of the city, Tyrion cannot imagine anyone's mind will long linger on the cart.

Charred and hollow buildings still steam in the cold winter air. Charbroiled corpses litter the ground, some walls are marked by the outlines in ash of bodies that simply disintegrated from blasts of heat. Tyrion shudders and wraps his cloak tighter around him. He cannot bear to look longer, but seeing the horror on Sansa and Mycah's faces as they pass the carnage is no solace. And the utter indifference on the younger Stark girl's face is worse.

Not so long ago he had wished such a horrid death upon this city and its people. But he had changed, and when he returned, he had plead on their behalf. And what did that earn them? A few more months of life – of cold, poverty and undead horrors – until it was all burned away. He had brought the dragons here. In the end, the hell he promised had come for King's Landing all the same.

* * *

**Winterfell**

It has been far too long since anyone had last seen the young prince. Theon and Obara now prowl the godswood, looking for him. Fresh snow covers the ground, but the tracks of Bran's wheelchair are still clear enough for Theon to trace. They lead behind a tree, and he halts in his tracks. The chair is empty. Looking through the brush, he sees Bran lying on the ground, a shadowy creature standing over him. In an instant, Obara lunges with her spear, but Ghost leaps out of the bushes, sending snow flying. The huge direwolf knocks her to the ground.

"Stop!" Bran shouts. Ghost backs down and Obara picks herself back up. Theon rushes forward and gets a better look at the mysterious figure – a stunted childlike thing, with huge golden eyes and green and brown skin, like leaves and bark.

"The fuck is that?" Obara points her spear again.

"Frost, a child of the forest," Bran answers as the creature lifts him up and Ghost stalks back to his side, growling. "She will be our guide."

""Our guide?" Theon looks around. "To where?"

"We must leave," Bran answers, cryptically, as Frost helps him onto the direwolf's back.

"We cannot leave Winterfell," Obara insists. "The people here need you."

"I have done all I can here," Bran insists, straightening his back. He speaks like a prince now, Theon thinks. "The time has come that all men need me. They need us. And so we must go." Ghost begins to lumber away, back down the path, with Bran on its back. Frost follows close behind.

"Whatever that means," Obara grumbles, before shouting after him. "But where?"

"To where this all began," Bran answers without stopping. "To the Isle of Faces."

* * *

**Daenery's Cell**

"Mhysa."

Missandei's whisper is too faint to be heard. She stands outside the door, head pressed against the cold wood. She thinks, through the silence, she can hear her queen's heartbeat. It is familiar. So long had that beat given her comfort and shelter and freedom. But she does not know it anymore. Slowly, she turns away.

"My lady," Argilac is confused. "Will you not…" She shakes her head, silencing him, and slowly begins the long, dark walk away down the hall.

Alone within the cell, Daenerys sits in the center of the floor. She could feel her friend's presence, if not hear her. But she knows Missandei has gone now. And again, she is alone. Her guardians and advisors gone, the proudest of her children dead, and her lover thrown her away in a cell. All that is left is the god that brought her here, only to show defeat.

Desperate, she drags her finger through the dirt and soot on the floor, trying to form the markings she had seen Zatarra and Eres craft so many times and praying to see a spark. No flame comes. But, echoing as if from the cell beside her, a voice speaks.

"At last we meet." The voice laughs. Daenerys jumps upright, rushing to the wall.

"Who are you?"

"Ah, that is a harder question than you might think." The stones feel warm where she can hear the voice. "Let me tell you a story... Many, many years ago, there was a boy who lived on a rock in the sea. The boy was different. He could see far beyond his little rock, to a whole great world of mystery and wonder. He thought it was a dream. But it was so much more.

"One night a bird came to the boy. It promised it could teach him to fly. But the bird lied. It wanted to use the boy to fight a war. It showed the boy a door, with a great darkness beyond. But what was behind the door was so powerful, so beautiful that the boy could not look away. And so the bird robbed him of his gift and left him to rot on his rock.

"But the boy grew into a strong man, who left behind the weak-minded fools of his home to search the world for the door, to find the power. And there the sea spoke to him. It gave him a song of shadow and death to unleash upon the world. But in the end, the man saw the truth. The light vanquished the shadow and the man finally found what he searched for:

"The salt and the smoke. Azor Ahai."

"Damn you!" Daenerys shouts, pounding at the rock until her knuckles bleed. "I'm no savior! The Red God told me what to do and I was betrayed! I have nothing."

"No," the voice answers. "You know the prophecy. You must lose what is your own to open the door and save the world. Once you have nothing, you will have everything. And the eternal dawn will begin. Have faith, Daenerys Targaryen. Believe, and all will be well."

Daenerys sits back onto the ground as the voice fades. Far, far away, Euron Greyjoy sits in his own cell and smiles. A hole smolders in his eyepatch. He tears it away, revealing thin lines of silver and black dragonglass tracing his skin into the ball that now sits in his eye socket – all the colors of the glass candle swirling within, he can feel the fire burning in his skull and the blood magic in his veins. And he smiles, his teeth singed black.

"It's always summer under the sea."

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

When Jon awakes, Grif is waiting for him with Missandei and three of the children they call "little birds". They have found a fine black studded doublet, embroidered with a red wolf and dragon. A red cape is draped over his shoulders. And then, in Grif's hands, a crown – blunt, simple, black steel with no ornaments or gems.

"They worked through the night," the squire extends it to him. "A crude working that must be replaced in time, but it will serve for now, your grace."

Jon eyes the boy suspiciously, trying to find some sense of intent in the piercing blue eyes as he remembers Harry Strickland's cryptic words. But he finds no ill tidings there, and Missandei places the crown atop his head.

They follow him as he leaves his chambers and walks slowly down the long path to the throne room. It is empty now, save for Davos, who he had been deeply relieved to find among his sisters' party. The old smuggler and Missandei stand to the left and right of the throne.

Jon feels a foreigner here as he climbs the steps of Aegon the Conquerer's famed seat. His own blood runs in this steel, he thinks as he sits, feeling the cold sharp edges beneath him. He looks across the long hall to where Grif stands by the doors. He pictures those waiting on the outside – The sea queen who wants his head; his sisters, whom he dare not show favoritism to; and the man who was once his closest friend. Who had started this all. He grits his teeth. Had Sam not revealed the secret… But it will not do to dwell on what could have been.

"Send them in!" he commands. The doors swing open and the squire calls out.

"All hail King Aemon Targaryen, First of his name!"

* * *

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Oh, wow, so that was a wild ride. I hope that you found this journey for Jon and Daenerys to be a lot more fulfilling than it was in the show. There's one season left, with new reveals, deadly political maneuvers and a final battle to be had before our noble and ignoble characters can hope to build a new world from this ash left behind. Who will live to see spring? Stay tuned..._


	35. Aemon

**Small Counsel Chamber**

The chamber is overflowing with bickering lords, ladies and knights from every corner of Westeros. Few have chairs, the rest stand pressed tightly together, each trying to hold the king's attention. Jon Snow, now King Aemon Targaryen, lies his head in his hand, trying to keep patience.

"This may be the least small Small Council in history, your grace," Davos Seaworth quips. But Jon has finally had enough.

"Silence!" Jon stands suddenly.

Silence falls. But one woman is not so quick to listen. Yara Greyjoy stands at the opposite end of the table.

"I demand you release Queen Daenerys at once!"

"Not until her trial." Jon answers, sternly.

"Then there is nothing further to discuss. Perhaps you will see things differently once the rest of the dragon's armies arrive."

As Yara exits, she throws a chair to the ground. Her supporters follow, and one by one the chamber empties. Jon can breathe again at last.

"I tried to speak with the men from Oldtown…" Sansa takes a seat beside him. "I do not think they know yet what side to choose. The Hightowers are the most powerful House in Westeros now. Let me speak to them on your behalf…"

"No," Jon rises. "We are not on a team. There are no sides. We must be united. I will not have people say that the Starks are conspiring to rule Westeros."

"But, Jon," Sansa rises to pursue him. "Just let me help. I know these people. I'm your sister."

"But you aren't, are you?" Jon does not look back. "Not really."

* * *

**Oldtown**

Lady Rhonda Hightower softly pushes open the door to her husband's study within the Blackstone Fortress. She enters to find him toiling with quill and ink over a parchment. The walls are lined with shakily drawn scribbles, designs for a new tower to replace the one that bore their family name.

She speaks. "Baelor, dear, you should be packed." Startled, the lord jumps to his feet, angrily tearing up the parchment and throwing it across the room. He begins to tear down the other drawings. Rhonda rushes to stop him.

"It's no use!" he shouts as she tries to calm him. "I've failed… I've failed them all." He slides to the floor amidst the mess he has created, and tears begin to come. "Garth, Leyla, Alysanne… all dead. All from my own plans. I was their brother and their lord. I was meant to protect them."

"They had their own lives, my love," Rhonda sits beside him, taking his hands. "They made their choices willingly. As must we all. You are the voice of Oldtown, now. The people must hear you. Where is Baelor Brightsmile hiding away?" She pokes his side, playfully, eliciting the slightest of laughs. Baelor rises and pulls a jacket over his undergarment.

"The caravan is waiting upon us," she leads him out towards the door, but suddenly he turns back again.

"No, I can't leave…"

Rhonda stops her husbands mouth gently, pointing to the disheveled drawings piled around the room. "I think it would be good for us to get away from the city for a while." She feels the patchy scruff on his cheeks. "And for you to shave."

Slowly, they kiss.

"Your hair…" Baelor runs his fingers through streaks of grey in his wife's pale yellow hair. "I do not remember this…"

"We've all grown old, Baelor," Rhonda smiles. "Even our son. I say he looks much like you, when we first met."

Baelor smiles, recalling his youth. "Can you imagine, how different things would have been if Elia Martell had chosen me instead?"

"I wouldn't want to imagine it," Rhonda tussles his thinning hair.

The lord of Hightower laughs, for the first moment in a long, sad while.

"Let's all grow a little older, shall we?"

* * *

**Highgarden**

Art Hightower sits in his chambers within the castle, looking over a missive from his uncle Gunthor. The war over, the surviving half of the army had dispersed at Goldengrove. Now he has at last an account of the casualties of the Battle of Tumbler's Falls – Chief among them his uncle Garth, aunt Alysanne and her husband and his namesake, Lord Arthur Ambrose.

"I can't believe they're gone," he whispers to himself as Tall Tarly slips into the room.

"As much as we meet, I think my suitors suspect they have all been beaten out by you," she smiles. By the way she looks at him, Art himself suspects she hopes it to be true. But marriage is the last thought on his mind. He hands her the report.

"I'm so sorry…" she reads it. "Lord Arhtur's son is here. Does he know?"

"My cousin is the lord of Red Hills now. I do not wish to trouble him in his grief. But I believe that he will side with our plan when the time comes."

A single knock comes on the door as Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, castellan and steward of Highgarden, pushes his way into the room.

"It's generally customary, ser, to wait for a welcome."

"Eh, this is still my castle," Bronn quips. "And I know you two ain't doin' anything worth hiding. I have news. Your parents are coming."

Art is shocked. His father hasn't left Oldtown for nearly a decade.

"What will they think of the plan?" Talla asks him, but he does not know.

"Oh, and another thing!" Bronn calls back as he exits. "You've got a bigger problem. You uncle decided not to retreat to Brightwater after all. Gunthor will be here in a day's march."

* * *

**The Burn Ward**

Groans of pain echo out from beneath the ramshackle hospital set up in a ruined hall of the Red Keep, haphazard sheets and tents strung out over sections of destroyed ceiling in a futile attempt to keep out the cold. Missandei flits back and forth, supervising the little birds and other volunteer nurses as they tend to new victims arriving every minute.

The groans of pain form a hideous cacophony of death, but Missandei has long since been numbed to the sounds. There is too much work to be done.

"My lady, I fear there is little we can do for many of these victims but to give them milk of the poppy and let them die in peace," a diminutive septa reluctantly reports.

"We will find a way, I swear," Missandei insists, dismissing the old woman. She turns to Alys. "Report to the king, have him send word. We need more supplies."

But Alys does not leave. Missandei bends down to the girl's level. Sometimes she forgets just how young Qyburn's former apprentice truly is.

"What's the matter?"

"My lady, I think I know of ways to help these people."

"Why haven't you said anything?"

"I did not know if you would… The lord Hand…"

"Qyburn? Show me." Missandei lets Alys lead her to where she has stored the piles of Qyburn's books and scrolls. Slowly, Missandei looks through them. The studies are there, ways to treat the burns they are seeing. She grimaces at some of the diagrams and their descriptions – remembering the two faces of the old man she knew: a kindly scholar and a savage torturer. She knows she does not want to know how he came by these findings.

"Make it so," she finally commands. "We must act to save what lives we can." Alys nods urgently and scurries away. She is replaced by the arrival of a knight.

"The king is hosting a feast this evening, my lady," the man declares.

_How can anyone celebrate in times like these?_ Missandei shakes her head.

"Give his grace my apologies," she bows, humbly. "But my place is here."

* * *

**The Dondarrion's Quarters**

Tywin Dondarrion and Wynafryd Manderly sit nervously under the piercing, hawklike gaze of his father, Lord Harlan.

"Did you really think I wouldn't find out?" Harlan shakes his head. "You've never been particularly clever, boy."

"I'm with child," Wynafryd declares. "His child."

"I'd be shocked if my son proved so effective," Harlan shakes his head. "And I know you already told your lord father that lie, girl. If you conceived before that debacle of a wedding in White Harbor, it would be apparent by now." Wynafryd tries to protest further, but is cut off. "Regardless, I have agreed to renew your betrothal. With you having already shared a bed, it would be dishonorable to do otherwise."

"Thank you, father!" Tywin nearly jumps out of his seat.

"However," Harlan continues to face Wynafryd, ignoring his son, "if you wish to be a Dondarrion, you must act in our interests. Daenerys Targaryen would have revoked our hard-earned titles and thrown them to the bastards of a failed king. I will not allow that. You are of the North, and close to Sansa Stark. You are clever. I hope you can deduce my expectations."

"Of course, my lord," Wynafryd bows, and struts confidently from the room. Tywin, however, lingers.

"I don't want any part of your schemes," he glares.

"My son," Harlan rises slowly. "You have no part in these schemes. Because I have no reason to believe you would succeed. But I will, and when I do, one day you will be handed the most powerful name in all of Westeros. Until then, I know you will never believe I did not harm your mother. But I do not need your love. I need your honor. Can I rely on that?"

Slowly, silently, Tywin nods.

"Then dress yourself. The king hosts a banquet tonight. You must look like the son of a great lord."

* * *

**The Stark Quarters**

Sansa Stark bites nervously at a lemoncake as Arya helps tighten the laces of her gown. She had bought it in White Harbor, after her clothes were destroyed when the White Walkers attacked their boat. A simple, grey dress, she had passed time stitching red weirwood leaves in a pattern along its side.

"You've gotten heavier," Arya mutters, and Sansa's spine stiffens in embarrassment. She wraps the final strings. "What? I'll be your maid, but I don't have to be polite about it."

"You're not my maid," Sansa turns. "You're my sister. I can help you with your…" She stops, examining the loose grey and black riding jacket and breeches on Arya. "That's what you're wearing all night, isn't it?"

"Is that a problem?" Arya glares.

"No," Sansa smiles and offers her sister a lemoncake. "You look wonderful."

"I still hate lemoncakes," Arya turns away, but pauses, looking back. "You're… you look very beautiful, too." Slowly, they share a warm embrace.

"Even if a bit heavy?" Sansa pinches the back of her sister's neck, and Arya playfully slaps her away in response. They share a laugh.

_Have we ever done that before?_

Sansa grabs a quick drink of wine to steady her nerves and together with Arya, steps out of the room. Their companions wait outside, dressed in their finest clothes – Mycah Manderly, dashing as ever, and nervous Sam Tarly, sweating profusely. And then there is Arianne, in a black, feathered dress that looks painfully tight with a plunging neckline; her mask freshly polished and gleaming; her ominous vulture's crown perched defiantly in her raven hair. Sansa thinks she couldn't blame Jon if he offered his hand at first sight.

"Are you ready, my lady?" Mycah takes her hand. "The king awaits." Together, the young nobles walk out the door.

* * *

**A Hall in the Red Keep**

The keep's largest hall may have been destroyed, but even its lesser atriums offer plenty of space for the visiting dignitaries. Good victuals were, understandably, hard to come by, but Jon had done his best to ensure his guests would be pleased without placing too great a strain on the survivors in and near the city. He would arrive last, as he hears is expected. But as he walks towards the sounds of life, a blonde man in a pale blue coat crosses his path. He recognizes Lord Sebaston Farman from Daenerys' fleet.

"Your grace, I apologize, but I must speak in private before the dinner," he insists. "It's Lady Greyjoy. She has worn her own crown to this feast. The disrespect... I know that I have sworn to Daenerys, but I cannot idly stand by and put my people at risk to an ironborn kingdom free of the Iron Throne. Were we to make an arrnangement..."

"Lord Farman," Jon silences the admiral. "This is not the place for such matters. If you have qualms with Yara Greyjoy, bring them to her face in the council. Now leave me be, before I delay this dinner any longer."

He marches onward into the hall. It is Sam who starts the cheers, he thinks. However, he walks sternly past them to his place at the head of the hall. He had carefully selected only his personal inner circle to take to his table – Harry Strickland, Davos Seaworth, Jon Bettley and an empty seat unfilled by Missandei. As he signals for the food to be brought in, he notices that his guests are starkly divided among their regional lines.

The ceremonial approval of each dish nearly bores Jon to tears. He barely notices when Arianne Martell approaches the empty seat beside him.

"That seat is not for you," he grumbles.

"I beg pardon, your grace," Arianne bows, subtly thrusting her chest towards the king's face. "I only wished to meet you in person. Our paths have not yet crossed."

"And now they have," Jon nods, dismissively. He reaches for a freshly presented plate. "Here, have this. It's surely delicious."

"I'm not here for food." She takes a seat despite his protests. "You do know who I am?"

"The Princess of Dorne. You signed the missive declaring me the heir."

"Yes, that's right, isn't it?" Arianne straightens her crown. "You would not be sitting here if it were not for me. But seeing you here, in person, it is my honor to give you what you deserve…" She leans in closer, gently touching his hand.

"I do not wish to be disturbed!" Jon swats her hand away, raising a concerned glance from Davos and Harry. Arianne rises to leave.

"Do not forget, King Aemon, I rule a free Dorne. If you wish to reunite all seven kingdoms, it will take something much warmer than that to bend my knee."

As she leaves, Jon notices she has stabbed the carving knife deep into the wooden table.

He nervously glances to where his family sits. Arya seems oblivious, sloshing ale with the knights, but Sansa is watching his every move. He shrinks back into his seat, trying to remember how a king ought to look and act. There will be much drink and music and dancing. But tonight it will all come as misery for him.

Hours later, as even the most drunken revelers have drifted off, Jon and Harry Strickland sit alone in the hall. Jon fidgets with his knife on his plate, the pitched scratching echoing off the walls.

"You are indeed surrounded by vultures, your grace," Harry comments. "Some more beautiful than others."

"As is any king," Jon mutters. He hates to call himself that. "Tell me, general. I remember when we met, you whispered in my ear. You told me you knew of who I was."

"All men know who you are. The Dornish missive saw to that."

Jon examines Harry closely, watching for any telltale gesture of deception. "I feel there is more that you mean." He glances to the side door, where the squire Grif waits upon his master. "Who is the boy?"

"You have many questions," Harry rises and tightens his sword belt, yawning. "As your general, I advise you to answer the ones posed to you before posing ones of your own."

Upon Harry's exit, Jon is left in a fouler move before. He storms from the room and into the empty passages of the abandoned keep, but even here he does not find peace. Harlan Dondarrion steps forward from the shadows, his long black cape nearly invisible in the corner where he had lurked.

"I wish to walk alone this evening," Jon eyes him sternly.

"Of course. I often find evening walks to clear the mind. Foolish men waste the night with drink and revels. I am pleased to see you are not among them."

"I was blessed with good teachers," Jon keeps walking, but Harlan follows in stride. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a white specter in the dark hall behind – one of the Horpe knights, no doubt. He walks faster.

"Yes," Harlan continues. "Ned Stark and Jeor Mormont. Both honorable men betrayed by cowards, if the reports are true. The kingdoms are at a great loss for their passage. It is hard for true men to survive in this world. But we have survived. And here we stand, on the cusp of the dawn."

"What do you want?" Jon finally stops. The walkway they stand upon is partly crumbled, exposing the ruins of the city before them, small fires everywhere, dotting the black cinders and white snow.

"I want what any good father would. To retain the titles the Iron Throne bestowed upon me so that I may pass them to my children and my children's children."

"You seized those titles by allying with Cersei. Gendry and Mya Baratheon rule the Stormlands now, as did their father before them."

"I kept my vows to the throne," Harlan insists. "And Robert's bastards were legitimized by a false queen to garner her own political favor."

At that, Jon suddenly and violently seizes Harlan by the scruff of his cape, pushing him out towards the ledge.

"You will not speak of Daenerys that way!" he shouts. In an instant, the Horpe knight is upon him, pulling them back and stepping between the king and his master.

"Peace, Ser Steffon," Harlan remains calm. "Your grace, I did not mean to offend. I only mean to offer my allegiance. I can deliver all the lords of the Red Mountains and Marches to you. Can Gendry Baratheon make the same promise?"

Jon has no answer for the man. He instead leaves them behind, their white and black cloaks circling together in the wind, and marches away into the darkness.

* * *

**Tyrion's Chambers**

There had been a time when Tyrion Lannister would never miss a feast. Now, he sits alone in a small room in a small manse that escaped only slightly scorched. He had burned his motley the moment he had escaped the city, and had floundered in oversized tunics until new clothes fit for a dwarf could be made – not in Lannister colors, but dull browns. His thoughts are with the dead.

His captivity had left him with little news of the outside world. So many who once walked beside him were now resting beneath the soil – Littlefinger, good riddance. Varys. Podrick. Jorah. And his brother, dear Jaime.

_At last he found the noble fate he sought. Perhaps now they will sing songs for him. But little comfort will those songs give me_. _Not even my tongue made it through the war alive_.

Only Bronn, the old bastard, seemed to have survived, Tyrion thinks, as he hears his door swing open. He turns to see Brienne standing there, with a plate of food and bottle of wine.

"My lady did not wish you to go hungry," she places the gifts on the table before him. He grimaces. Food and drink offer little joy without a tongue to taste with. But Brienne does not leave him be, so he begins to eat. "Perhaps you might visit the sick ward. The lady Missandei tends to the wounded without rest. She would appreciate your assistance, my lord."

_I am no lord,_ he thinks. _But the woman has a point._ As she finally leaves him be, he declares to himself that tomorrow, he will finally leave these quarters and brave the scorched city. His mind and hands have been idle for too long. If he happens to save a few lives, perhaps he may yet stop damning himself.

* * *

**The Riverlands**

Thick, fluffy snowflakes fall gently down from the sky onto the small valley where the hostages escaped from Daenerys' camp have taken shelter. Hoster Blackwood's tall, gangly frame clumsily swings away with a stolen battleaxe, attempting to cut wood for a fire.

"You'll cut off your leg like that," Meera Reed pulls the axe away from him. "You've got to do it like this." She carefully takes aim and cleanly spits the log in half, only to see Hos has already been distracted by the falling snow. "Have you seen snow before?"

"I was very young the last time it snowed at Raventree," Hos catches a huge flake on the back of its hand and watches it melt. "It's so beautiful."

"Perhaps," Meera cuts more wood. "But it means death for most folks."

"All of life is like that, no?" he looks up to the sky, letting the snow fall onto his face. "We find life and death in the same things. It's all a circle."

"Damn the gods for sticking me with a poet," Meera tosses lumber at Hos, who fumbles to catch it. "Save your musings for after the fire is started."

Together they carry the wood back to where the younger children wait.

"Where are we going?" Hos asks. "No matter whose men stumble on us first, we'll wind up prisoners of the dragon again all the same."

"There's a place my father told me to go if I ever had to hide. The safest place in Westeros, for those blessed by the old gods. We're going to the Isle of Faces."

* * *

**Near Moat Cailin**

Across a snow-covered hill, two horses and a pony carry their riders in the stead of a massive white direwolf. Bran Stark clings tightly to Ghost's back, his lame legs flopping uselessly to the side. Obara Sand and Theon Greyjoy ride in pace. Behind them, on the pony, disguised in oversized rags, follows the child of the forest, Frost.

As they near a small valley, Obara spies a small, huddled group of peasants waiting alongside the road.

"We should pass around them," she warns, looking nervously back at Frost, the creature's golden eyes glowing beneath her hood.

"No," Bran shakes his head. "We are not in hiding."

As they near, the smallfolk recoil in fear at the sight of the massive wolf.

"Prince Bran of Winterfell!" Theon declares, as if they would not know the lad by his wolf and broken legs.

"Your grace!" the smallfolk fall prostrate on the ground – a small family, or perhaps two moving together. "We are but poor travelers seeking comfort in the winter."

"Get up," Bran commands. "Two leagues east of here you will find a storehouse – there will be food and shelter. Go there, and may the gods be with you." He hands a weirwood pod down the leader. "Plant this in the earth when you arrive."

Theon watches the smallfolk disappear over the horizon.

"Have you seen the city?" he asks. "Did you see what happened?"

"Yes," Bran answers, sadly. "Though I wish I had not."

"I wish youd've given us a warning," Obara fondles her spear. "I can't believe I was going to fight for that dragon. I should have killed her before she ever left Winterfell."

"Wishes are fine things," Bran sighs as Ghost lurches forward down the road once more. "But I cannot see the future. Only the shadows of things that may yet be. And unless we act swiftly, I fear those shadows will consume us all."

* * *

**The Dragonpit**

The great ruins of the Targaryen's mighty dragonpit were untouched by both the ravages of wildfire and the strafing flames of Drogon's assault. Now Rhaegal prowls through the long-abandoned shell of the building as Jon and Davos watch.

"Do you think it can feel them?" Davos asks. "The ghosts of its brethren?"

"There are no ghosts," Jon shakes his head. "Only the living and the dead."

"And some of us in between," Davos looks mournfully at Jon, haunted by recognition of the pain and defeat that had ate away at the last king he served. "The armies will be here soon. Already the Greyjoys plot against you. You will need a council."

"How can I have a council? I barely have a kingdom." Jon turns away, but Davos places a firm hand on his shoulder.

"No man can carry this weight alone, your grace," Davos quickly removes his hand, fearing he has overstepped. "I did warn you of the red god's ways," he adds, reluctantly.

"Indeed," Jon nods, his voice tinged with regret. "And I will need counsel. But I already have a Hand." He extends his open palm to Davos, but the old smuggler does not take it.

"Perhaps that journey has come to an end, your grace. I have been Hand to a King of Dragonstone and a King in the North. I have had enough of politics. You have a kingdom to rebuild. I fear you will need someone more learned than me."

"Who would you have me choose, then?"

"Someone who has served both you and Daenerys. Someone who can address the Dothraki and Unsullied as well as the Dornish and Ironborn. Someone who can secure the favor of Oldtown. Someone with the knowledge to help you restore what has fallen."

Jon does not answer at once, the wheels in his head turn slowly. Finally, the light of recognition appears in his eyes and he summons Rhaegal. The great dragon kneels for him to mount. The uplift of the wings nearly knocks Davos from his feet.

Shaking the dust off, Davos walks slowly back to his horse, not bothering to trace his king's path in the sky. A dragon is assuredly faster than a horse. But after so many years of running, Davos is happy to take his time.

* * *

**The Burn Ward**

Missandei has taken a rare moment to rest her feet when Ser Argilac pulls two unexpected guests into her makeshift study – Tyrion Lannister and a tall woman in grey robes with colored ribbons tied into her white-streaked hair. Her sinister orange eyes unnerve Missandei.

"I found the Imp lurking outside with this one," he reports. "I think he wants to help."

"Thank you!" Missandei is relieved to work with her old friend again. "Alys!" she summons the girl to fetch supplies for Tyrion. She rises, bumping into the strange woman.

"I would… also like to help," she speaks, and suddenly Missandei remembers her – glimpses from the shadows of Oldtown. "I am Mallora Hightower. I saw you help my family in the city. I have… special skills that could be of service."

"Of course," Missandei nods, enthusiastically, remembering the stories of Mallora and her father dabbling in sorcery. "Argilac will show you the way."

She steps outside only to walk into the path of another shocking visitor – Jon, wearing his rough-hewn crown and flanked by members of the Golden Company.

"Missandei of Naath," Jon gently takes her hand. She scans her surroundings, unsure of what to do. "You have served the Targaryen family now for many years. You have proven yourself noble, true and wise. These are qualities any king should seek in his counsel." He opens his other hand. She sees a familiar pin, only this one is made of gold. "I would remand Ser Argilac Horpe into my service as a Kingsguard. But he shall stay with you, as I wish for you to serve me, as Hand to the King."

Missandei is at a loss for words. She looks back to see Argilac similarly dumbstruck. The grim knight quickly drops to his knee. Tyrion steps forward, watching, as a look of pride spreads across his face. Missandei turns back to Jon.

"I accept."

"Good," Jon gently places the pin upon her chest. "Let Lord Tyrion tend to the sick for a moment. We have visitors we must see."

* * *

**The Walls of the City**

Sandor Clegane has never been more convinced of his hatred for horses than now. Trudging along at the head of the massive force of Stormlanders and Dornishmen has been as miserable as he's felt since being left for dead in the Riverlands so long ago. He'd much rather walk, but the wound the White Walker had dealt his leg left him without that option. And so he rode on with a watchful eye on the young Baratheon lord, to ensure nothing happened on the long march to the city alongside Harlan Dondarrion's sinister Horpe knights.

And now they had arrived. He had heard the news of the city's destruction, but nothing had quite prepared anyone for the sight of the utter devastation. A sellsword had met them there, in the ruins of the city, and demanded, by order of King Aemon Targaryen, first of his name, that the leaders of the army meet at a designated space. So they had carried on, Sandor not letting Gendry out of his sight, until they encountered the approaching representatives of the northern and western armies.

And then they found the king.

With the huge green dragon and row of battle elephants behind him an ominous backdrop, the bastard boy Sandor knew as Jon Snow now stands in a crown, with a flowing red cape. He is surrounded by gilded knights and two in the white plate and cloak of the Kingsguard – Ser Argilac Horpe and Ser Jon Betteley.

The leaders of the armies approach with varying degrees of reverence. First Sigorn, the wildling lord, takes his place at his king's side. Then come Gendry, Eres, Lord Fowler and, lastly, Damion Lannister, who stops, standing face to face with Jon.

"Where is my queen?" Damion demands to know, his Hand's pin fused to his red and gold lion breastplate.

"She is held until her trial," Missandei steps forward, her own Hand's pin on prominent display. "For the destruction of this city and the murder of countless innocent smallfolk."

"Who are you?" Damion scowls. "I am here to speak to the pretender king."

"Aemon Targaryen is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne," Missandei answers, for the whole crowd behind Damion. "He will issue a just ruling upon his aunt for the actions she took. I served Daenerys for many years, as you do now. I promise you, she will be treated fairly."

"It is already clear that is not the case," Damion turns back to Jon. "Are you two afraid to speak to me, boy? Now that your aunt won the war from you and you've stolen her throne?"

Argilac lashes out with his fist, splitting Damion's nose, but the knight does not flinch, even as the blood runs down over his mouth. Jon continues to stare, silently.

"Stolen glory is worth nothing in the end," Damion turns away, walking back to his men.

"You will all find housing prepared for you within the city," Jon finally speaks. "But your armies must camp outside the walls. The council will meet tomorrow. Do not delay."

* * *

**Daenerys' Cell**

Jon stands outside the door, alone, trying to steady his breathing. He does not know how long he has waited here. It has been hours since he confronted the newly arrived lords. Slowly, he steels himself and pushes the door open. Daenerys sits in the middle of the floor, the ground and walls covered with arcane markings. As he looks into her blue eyes for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. And she is as beautiful as ever. He has no words.

"They're tearing you apart, aren't they?" she looks up, softly. "Even after all that's happened, they can't stop playing their little game."

"I wish you were there with me. You know these people and their ways better than I"

"Do you?" Daenrys laughs, scornfully. "Is that why you have me in chains?"

"You must answer for your crimes," Jon puts his foot down. _This was a mistake._

"My crimes?" She stands. "I delivered justice! Justice for Ned Stark, for your true parents, for Elia Martell and everyone else Cersei and this wicked city destroyed. I ended the war without our armies spilling another ounce of blood! Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Not like this." Jon turns away. Slowly, Daenerys calms.

"What do the people say of me?"

"Many of your followers remain true. No one weeps for Cersei. Yara and your Hand certainly have no love for me, either. Others call you mad, like your father. They say that when a Targaryen is born, the gods…"

"Flip a coin. I know. I never hear men say that of Tywin Lannister. And look at the crimes he wrought. He gets "The Rains of Castemere". I get "The Mad Queen."

"The world is cruel. That does not mean we must be cruel to change it."

"You really hate me…" Daenerys reaches out. Jon lets her take his hand.

"No."

"I loved you from the day we met…" Her eyes seem to grow a deeper, sadder blue. "Was it ever truly real?"

"Yes! I love you! I still do! If I did not, I would have struck you down the day you burned the city." Jon realizes he has pulled her close. He shakes free.

"No," she glares. "You are wiser than that. You knew you needed me alive to placate my followers."

"Then you greatly overmeasure my wisdom. Were I a wise man, I never would have journeyed south."

"Then go, run away back north!" Any remaining sympathy is gone now. "Back to that frigid, gods-forsaken place! I'll even let them be free! Just leave me to my throne." Jon does not reply. "But you can't do that, can you? Your family has conspired against me from the moment I arrived. The assassin and the seductress and the cripple with his dark magic..."

"I am not conspiring against you! My siblings have nothing to do with this!" He shoves her away. "Never speak of them that way again! I would gladly leave, if I could! But I cannot allow what you have done to go unpunished!"

"What am I to think?" Daenerys rises again, laughing a sad, lonely trill. "You promised to help me win my throne. And now, after I win the war by myself, sacrificing my dragon, my child, you lock me away and sit in my place! You want me to believe you don't want this? If you loved me, we would be planning our wedding, not my trial!"

"I love you. But I know my duty."

"And duty is the death of love." She answers coldly.

"How did you…"

"They will never follow you, Jon. You're weak. You need me. We need each other."

"I do not need them to follow me," Jon steps back through the door. "I only need them to fear me."

The door slams closed between them.


	36. The Wolf and the Stag

**Highgarden**

"Lord Peake and my aunt Rhea are getting suspicious," Talla Tarly mentions as she follows Art Tarly along the castle ramparts. "I… I told them that you were courting me."

"Well, if it will get them to stop asking questions we aren't ready to answer…" Art slices a piece off a pear and offers it to Talla. She accepts, gratefully.

"My aunt seemed proud. And Lord Peake… well, I don't think he has much hope his nephew can compete with you. And without a betrothal, he has no interest in me."

"A shame," Art smiles. "You are quite interesting, after all."

"Where are you going, young ones?" a faint voice calls. They turn. It is old Lady Oakheart, with two of her guards. "Ser Gunthor is nearly returned from battle. Will you not be at the gates to great him?"

Art nervously glances to Talla. His uncle has made good time. They had not expected his arrival so soon. They walk, ever so slowly, behind the small, toddling woman until they arrive at the inner gate. From the sound of cheers, the arrivals must have already reached the outer walls.

"Such festivities for defeated men," Art mutters. He can trace the Florent and Hightower banners as they weave through the hedge mazes that surround the castle. Before long, the inner gates swing open. Ser Gunthor Hightower is the first to enter, and he looks as if he has nary seen a battle, much less defeat. - pale white skin unblemished, bright blonde hair perfectly coifed, and his shining bronzed armor covered in a surcoat – his personal arms, quartered fox and tower.

His wife, and former stepmother, Lady Rhea is the first to rush to him, showering the returned knight with kisses and altogether ignoring her brother, Lord Alekyne Florent, who appears no less splendid. Eventually, Gunthor and Rhea make their way to where Art and Talla wait.

"Welcome home, uncle," Art smiles with as much sincerity as he can muster. "We mourn for Garth, Alysanne and all the others."

"Of course, that is only proper. I too have mourned for them," Gunthor flashes his wide smile. "But I do hope you haven't let the place get too dreary. After all we've been through, my lady wife and I are ready for our new home. Highgarden truly is lovely, even in winter, don't you think?"

* * *

**Maegor's Holdfast**

The bridge to the holdfast lies destroyed along with half of the once-great "castle-within-the-castle", its outer walls tumbled down atop the spiked moat. But such obstacles are no match for a dragon. And so Rhaegal rests atop the ruined holdfast as the sun rises over the city and its master rests inside.

This is the only place that Jon can find peace. His bed is cold, and he has not tried to warm it. Sometimes he thinks he sees Daenerys standing just out of view, in the corner of the room or behind a curtain. But it is nothing. It is only her words that haunt him. He can't help shaking the thought that she is right. What is he doing, trying to rule without her?

His muscles tense as he pulls his clothes on. The scars burn with a special fire today. He walks slowly out to where Rhaegal waits. He wishes he could simply fly away across the sea, take his love with him and never return. But he does not have that liberty. He must face the schemers, their clinging hands grasping for influence and favor. Even his own family, he fears. And so he places the crown on his head, takes a deep breath, and begins the day as king.

* * *

**Chataya's Brothel**

Ser Carnegie Rowan kicks aside a piece of scorched fallen lumber, clearing a path for Lord Damion Lannister as he marches through the city streets. The red priest-knight Forley Prestor and Malaqo follow closely behind, as does Damion's squire, Robert Brax.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Carnegie grimaces as they reach the entrance to the luxuriant brothel, lucky to be one of the finest buildings largely untouched by the destruction.

"Indeed," Damion steps in. "If you are so chaste, Carnegie, you are free to stay outside." The knight hesitates, but ultimately follows the others. The halls and winding rooms are full of soldiers, servants and whores alike. Damion has little interest in any of them. Beneath a grand staircase, he finds the remaining knights of Daenerys' Queensguard. Save Ser Merlon Crakehall, they are all strangers to him, as is the bald, eastern woman in red armor and robes, waiting at the top of the stairs.

"Welcome, Lord Damion," Eres smiles. "We have been awaiting you."

"Stay here," he commands his companions, and rises slowly, step by step. Eres leads him to the largest chamber, a vibrantly colored room decorated with fine eastern treasures. Behind the colorful curtains in the center, Yara Greyjoy reclines, her rough-hewn leather vest pulled apart, enjoying the caresses of two petite women from the Summer Isles. Mya Baratheon reclines with a handsome man in the corner, while Gendry stands uncomfortably to the side with Sebaston Farman.

"You've found a pleasant home for yourself, I see," Damion stops at the foot of the bed.

"What, does it scorch the soles of your feet to walk in a brothel, old man?" Yara mocks.

"I pass no judgements upon how others find pleasure in life," Damion removes a glove to wrap his hand in the colorful silks. "The young ought to enjoy what luxury they find, while it is still free to them." He declines an offer of wine from one of the women. "My stomach is weak."

The woman returns to the bed with the sea queen, who finishes the wine herself. Damion had hoped the whores would leave them. But if this is how Yara will do business, so be it.

"Who in the city may we still count loyal to our queen?" he asks.

"Our queen's armies, of course. And the Baratheons," Yara muses, gesturing to Gendry, who bows anxiously. "Ser Bennard Brune's men from Cracklaw Point. A few loyalists in the Crownlands. Some of the Northern tribes. And Gulltown."

"Is that all?" Damion knew their situation was perilous. But these allies are more pitiful than even his eternal pessimism expected.

"Our queen lies in chains, her dragon dead and her nephew on the throne." Yara finally rises, disregarding her exposed body, to Gendry's further discomfort. "None of these are things known to inspire loyalty. But I know Daenerys. She is strong. And she gave me a vow, to let my people live free. So I will not rest until she has what belongs to her. Can I trust the same from you, lion?"

"Of course, your grace," Damion points to his Hand's pin. "My queen may be in chains, but I remain hers. Tell me of your plans, and let us bring order once again."

* * *

**The Stark Quarters**

_These walls are far too thin,_ Sansa thinks as she breaks fast with Sam Tarly and Mycah Manderly. Arya and Gendry had only shortly been reunited before they had dragged each other into bed to make up for time spent apart. No amount of wine could drown out that noise. Yet her sister's violent and piercing passions are not what has kept Sansa up all this long night.

Both Baratheon's had left early with the sunrise. To meet with Yara Greyjoy, she fears. Whatever love Gendry has for Arya, it has not extended to Jon. She looks up as her sister, disheveled, stumbles in, clearly aching from too much drink and too little sleep.

"Have some eggs," Sam offers. Arya grabs a handful and wonders off. "At least someone's having a good time," he grumbles.

"What's the matter?" Mycah asks.

"Jon's barely spoken to me since we arrived. He seems so different now."

"He's barely spoken to me, either," Sansa murmurs, reaching for more eggs. "He doesn't speak to anyone, save for his Hand and his guards."

"I think he blames me for this," Sam murmurs.

"For the city?" Mycah chokes, incredulously. "How?"

"For telling the world who he was. If I hadn't, who knows what would have happened."

"It's no good to dwell on that," Sansa insists. "If I spent my time dreaming of what could have been, I'd never leave bed. What matters is the future. And if Jon will not listen to us, then we will make him listen."

* * *

**The Dragonpit **

Seats and tables covered by tents have been erected in the old ruins, arranged before a grand dais, where Jon presides. Tensions have never been more high. Beside the king sit Missandei, Harry Strickland and Davos, the two man Kingsguard standing nearby. Jon counts the representatives of the North, the Marches, Dorne and the Stormlands. But the Dothraki and Unsullied are nowhere to be seen, nor the Ironborn and Westerners.

Jon hears Rhaegal growl from his perch behind him. His own mood has soured as well. A king ought not be made to wait. Finally, he rises.

"Only half your number are assembled!" he calls out. "Where are the others?"

"They will not be attending, your grace," Gendry stands.

"What do you mean?" Jon steps forward. Rhaegal rises to follow, the dragon's long neck stretching out to look down at the nervous guests, steam floating from its nostrils in the crisp winter air.

"He means they ain't coming," Mya stands beside her brother, presenting a prepared message. "The Queen of the Iron Islands and Lord Hand Damion Lannister will not attend any counsel, nor will the leaders of their armies, until Daenerys Targaryen is released to claim her rightful authority."

Jon hears a commotion from the Northern pavilion, but does not take his eyes off of the siblings. Gendry nervously looks up at the looming dragon.

"Then they do not recognize my authority as rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms?" Jon asks, though he already knows the answer.

"No," Gendry stiffens his stance and makes eye contact. "Nor do I."

"Gendry!" Arya shouts from the Northern pavilion. Jon turns to see Mycah restraining his sister. Sansa rises instead.

"Lord Baratheon, please, surely you must see reason. Our fathers were friends."

"My father was a friend to the Starks," Gendry continues, defiantly. "This king is not a Stark. He is a betrayer. And my father killed his father for a betrayal."

"Calm yourselves, all of you!" Missandei shouts as the Kingsguard rush forward. "You have come into the king's council, show him the respect he is due."

"I have already said, he is not my king. I will not return until Daenerys is freed." At that Gendry turns and begins to exit, his followers going with him, though Harlan Dondarrion and the marcher lords remain.

Mya turns back as she leaves, with a parting smirk at Jon.

"And you'd best not count your kingdoms before they hatch, my lord. I see an awful lot of crowns going around these days, not just yours."

_Dracarys. _As the Baratheons leave, Jon feels the word on his lips. But he dare not speak it. Instead, he urges Rhaegal back to rest. _I can't just burn everyone in my way._ _That's not who I am. _But as he returns to his seat and sees the eyes of the other lords, he sees no fear, nor respect. _A king in name only is no king at all. I must be strong, before there is no kingdom left._

* * *

**The Stark Quarters**

Arya rides silently back from the council meeting. She knows Gendry will not be waiting for her there. Part of her wants to go to him. But a much larger part wants to leave him bleeding in the street for how he treated Jon today. The memory of their past nights' passion is already fading as she stews.

"You could talk to him, couldn't you?" Sam offers.

"It wouldn't work!" Arya snaps. "All his life he had nothing. Daenerys gave him everything. And he's afraid that it's all about to be taken away again."

"If he values Storm's End more than he values you, than you ought to have nothing to do with him," Sansa advises his sister as they arrive home and dismount. "That said, we cannot afford to have him further undermine Jon. If there is any way to sway him to our side…" She stops, noticing Arya is not listening. She pulls her back to finish. "Perhaps you would have better luck with his sister. Meet her somewhere, try to talk reason."

"I'll try, Arya shrugs, noncommittally, and walks through the door. Sam follows silently. Sansa is left alone with Mycah.

"Have you seen Wynafryd?" he asks.

"No," Sansa shakes her head. "Though I hear that Harlan Dondarrion has renewed her betrothal to his heir. No doubt he wants the North to back his claim to the Stormlands."

"No wonder the Baratheons are on edge," he coughs. "Gods, I hate this ash. There's nowhere to breathe here. I miss the sea."

"Let us pray then, that we shall return home soon enough," Sansa clutches her weirwood necklace. _And that it will still be a home worth returning to._

* * *

**A Tavern in King's Landing**

The best tavern still standing overflows tonight with knights, sellswords, traders and wayward nobles alike. A makeshift band plays as flagons of ale and stale bread and cheese are dispensed to guests. Arya and Sandor Clegane swing open the doors and step in. Sandor immediately grabs a wedge of cheese from a passing tray. Taking a bite, he gags.

"Shit," he tosses the wedge to Arya. She tries it herself and pulls the same face.

"Shit," she drops it by the plate of a passed out knight. "Good thing we're not here for food." It doesn't take long to find their quarry. Mya Baratheon is already through a flagon of ale, belting out a crude drinking song with two drunken knights and a serving wench.

"Takes after her father, that one," Sandor mumbles as they reach the table. The knights look up, their flirtation interrupted. But one harsh bark from Sandor sends them scurrying away.

"More ale for the Hound and the Wolfpup!" Mya calls out.

Arya begrudgingly takes a seat, remembering she is doing this for Sansa.

"I hope that little spectacle at the council today doesn't put a damper on things," Mya laughs. "My brother and I have issue with the king, not you. This is no place for politics."

"Of course. Tonight is for drink," Sandor seizes a flagon as the serving maid returns. She pauses, confused. "Go on, get the rest, this is for me!"

As the maid hurries away, Mya laughs loudly, smacking the table. "A knight after my own heart!" She drains what is left of her own ale. "Finally some worthy company."

More drink is brought in due haste and the night rolls on. Arya bites her tongue as Sandor and Mya swap stories of their woeful youths and greatest fights. She wants to flip over the table and grab Mya by the throat, demanding that she and Gendry stop being absurd, that they listen to Jon, that he won't rob them of their name and that they ought to let Harlan Dondarrion rule the Stormlands if that's what it takes to end the fighting. But instead she silences herself with more ale.

Before long, Arya has lost track as time as a very drunken Sandor is attempting to recount his duel with Beric. Her eyes growing heavy, Arya has finally had enough. She slams her fists down and stands, the sudden dizziness suggesting that perhaps she has drunk too much. And so, not wanting to drink anymore ale, the logical next seems to be to empty her mug into Mya's face.

"By the hells!" Mya roars and grabs Arya's vest, pulling her down and slamming her face into the table. Sandor rushes to pull them apart, clumsily knocking over the table and sending empty mugs and flagons clattering to the floor. He grabs Arya be the shoulders.

"What do ye' think you're doing, pup?"

"Get off me, you drunken lout!" Arya shakes free.

"Drunken lout? Me? Have ye seen yourself?" Sandor trips over a chair and hits the ground as Arya vaults over the clutter. Mya swings drunkenly and misses and the servants rush to restrain the confused and riled patrons.

"What are you thinking?" Arya wraps her arms around the taller woman's waist and begins to knee her in the side. "Just listen to Jon! You're going to get him killed!"

"I'm not makin' my brother do nuthin'!" Mya lifts Arya up into the air and throws her to the ground. "And we don't owe this king Jon or Aemon or whatever the fuck nothing! I don't forget a favor. And neither does Gendry."

Arya swings her legs out, undercutting Mya and taking her to the ground. She crawls on top, punching at her face.

"You know," Mya growls between blows, "You're starting to make me mad!" She pushes up, throwing Arya back. Sandor, finally having collected himself, catches his small companion. He holds out an arm to push back the livid attacker.

"You need to calm down," he slurs, before Mya forces close enough for a missed punch to hit him in the face. He catches her next fist. "I don't care much for fighting anymore, but…" She headbutts him square in the jaw. Spitting out blood and ale, Sandor lets out a furious, drunken howl and grabs Mya with both hands, throwing her across the bar.

_Oh, no_, Arya tries to think through the pain in her head as she watches the two fight and the chaos spread across the room. _I've ruined it. Sansa wanted one thing, she finally asked me for help and… Maybe I always will be a savage little girl. At least things can't get worse…_

There is a stirring from the entrance. Tywin Dondarrion has entered, with Wynafryd Manderly at his side. With them are Edric Dayne and Aerea Horpe, all in their finest clothes, save Aerea, who remains in the tattered white cloak of her house.

"What's happening?" Wynafryd gasps. Recognizing Arya, Tywin rushes forward, concerned. But seeing Gendry's rival face to face only adds fuel to her simmering rage.

"Lady Stark, you're bleeding! Are you alright?"

"This is all your fault!" Arya shoves Tywin backwards onto a crowded table. "And you!" She spins to confront Wynafryd, but is knocked aside by another brawling patron. Aerea, overjoyed at the violence on display, leaps into the fray as the entire tavern devolves into a total brawl.

From the corner of the room, Grif and Rolly Duckfield recline with goblets of wine. The squire toasts the gilded knight, smiling as a flirtatious maid runs a stray hand through his dyed blue hair.

"How uncivilized they are, Duck," Grif chuckles. "Are these the lot with which Aemon thinks to rule the Seven Kingdoms?"

"We'll see about that," Duck smirks as Mya furiously breaks a cask over Sandor's back and Tywin cowers behind a table with Wynafryd. "They'll have to do it without any ale at this rate. Let's go back and make sure they don't defile the wine."

"Yes, let's," Grif nods and the duo sneak off, several unnerved maids rushing close behind them.

As the sounds of fighting slowly die down, Arya stumbles back into the street. She wipes someone's blood from her mouth, catching the taste of spilt alcohol on her hand. _Good ale_, she thinks, and vomits into the gutter.

She topples into a wall and slides down to sit, watching the others leave. Sandor and Mya wonder off together, having returned to amiable terms while cracking the skulls of drunk ruffians. She thinks she might even hear him singing an old ditty into the night.

_This is how we live in the city of the dead. _Suddenly, the anger is gone. And guilt remains. Guilt for all those who died against the dragons, against the Walkers. And she had survived, for what? To cause mayhem in a forgotten tavern on a lonely street. Stumbling back to her feet, she limps off into the night. No more hiding. She will see Gendry herself, whether he wants to or not. And she will put an end to this, even if it costs her everything.

* * *

**Highgarden**

From the great window of the lord's hall, Gunthor Hightower looks down at the smallfolk milling about in the yard below, his wife at his side.

"You can smell them even from here," Rhea sneers.

"Ser Bronn," Gunthor turns to the castellan. "My elder brother will be here soon. I expect you plan to have these people gone by his arrival."

"Gone where?" Bronn reclines in the lord's seat, the Valyrian scythe he won from Harras Harlaw at his side. "Their homes are not yet rebuilt. It is still the dead of winter, I can't very well send them out to freeze."

"You can very well do whatever I say!" Rhea storms towards the former sellsword. Gunthor rushes to hold her back. "This is Highgarden, not some charity ward! It's overrun with these gutter rats!"

"I'd sooner keep company with the gutter rats than you," Bronn smirks, rising. "Tell me, was your first husband even cold in his tomb before you married his son?"

"You bastard!" Rhea shrieks, breaking free to lash out with clawed hands at Bronn's face. He only laughs and shoves her aside. She stumbles and Gunthor runs to catch her, his hands steadying his wife's heaving breasts. "Kill him!" she shouts.

Slowly, Gunthor turns, drawing his sword.

"Leave now, ser, and do not fancy to sit in that chair again. It will be mine soon enough."

"You know, you're very pretty," Bronn reaches for his schythe. "But I don't fancy you much of a fighter. Thankfully for you, my dueling days are over."

Ignoring the dismissal, Gunthor charges with blind fury. In a flash, the blunt end of the scythe hits the center of his chest, sending him falling back, his head hitting the chair and sword clattering to the floor.

Rhea's screams for help are finally heard as Art rushes in with Titus Peake, Alek Florent and Hobber Redwyne. They find Bronn standing over Gunthor, the point of his scythe squarely in the knight's bloodied face.

"What is happening here?" Lord Peake demands.

"This damned fool attacked me!" Bronn shrugs, backing down. "And didn't have the skill to back himself up."

"He insulted my lady wife!" Gunthor hastily stands, pointing wildly.

"Who was trying to give me orders," Bronn flops back into the Lord's Seat.

"And get out of that fucking seat!" Rhea shouts, charging Bronn again. This time Lord Peake restrains her.

"I ought to have them both locked up," Bronn looks as his guards march in. "They've clearly lost their minds."

"You have no right!" Gunthor shouts as the guards step cautiously closer.

"No, I suppose I won't do that," Bronn waves them away. "But this is still my castle."

"Your duties were bestowed by Queen Cersei," Alek declares, as if he has just made a great discovery. "Your titles died with her!"

"Then they have been returned by me!" Talla finally speaks up. "As my house sits as Lords Paramount of the Reach."

"And who gave you that title, girl?" Rhea glares at her niece.

"Regardless of who holds dominion, Lady Talla certainly has higher rank than either of you," Art declares. Lord Peake and Hobber both signal their agreement, causing Gunthor and Rhea to finally relent. Rhea seizes Alek's arm, pulling her brother from the room. But Gunthor lingers a moment longer to whisper in Art's ear.

"Enjoy this while it lasts, boy. Your father will be here soon to put an end to your impertinence. Whatever hare-brained scheme you have, it ends the moment he walks in that door. And when I rule Highgarden, don't expect an invitation to dinner."

With that, Gunthor follows his wife out. The others turn to Art, but he has no further words, his hopes for the future rapidly dissipating. Instead, he rushes from the room.

"I'm going to go paint."

* * *

**The Iron Throne **

Jon sits atop the cold throne, turning his crown over in his hands.

"My men can make for you a finer work," Harry Strickland offers.

"That will not be needed," Jon dismisses the thought. "This suits me."

"As you wish. There is much to be said of the simple things in life."

"Last night, in the Holdfast, I thought I awoke and saw your squire."

"Grif?" Harry laughs. "In Maegor's? Your grace, there is no way in but with you on the dragon's back!"

"So it may seem," Jon's mind drifts. "But I hear tell of secret paths within the walls, built by Maegor himself. They say the Spider used them well."

"I and all my men are new to this city," Harry insists. "If there are such passages, we do not know them."

"Even so, I want you to find them. And seal them."

"As you command," Harry bows, before taking a more serious tone. "But tell me more, you say you thought to see my squire?"

"In a way," Jon tries to recall the hazy memory of night. "It seemed like him, but taller, prouder, with the white hair of a Targaryen. Like the tales of Rhaegar come to life." _Rhaegar, my father, _he thinks, a thought still foreign to him. "It was just a dream."

"They say in the east that dreams often reflect the inner thoughts that even we do not know," Strickland muses.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. Only that it is wise, perhaps to heed such matters. You say you saw an image of what Prince Rhaegar's son should be. You have lived your whole life as Ned Stark's bastard. To suddenly be named a Targaryen king must have come as a shock. If you want your subjects to see you for who you are, you must first see yourself truly."

"And if I cannot see that?" Jon asks, lost in thought.

"Then perhaps there is another meaning…" Strickland trails off as Jon turns back to him.

"What other meaning? If I am not that man, who is?"

"No, no, your grace," Strickland returns to his typical, amiable self, raising his hands in submission. "I am no reader of signs. Find a priest or prophet if you wish to study your dreams. Come to me for matters of the sword."

"And me for those of the pen." Both men turn to see Missandei has entered. "I have begun to look into what it will take to clear the rubble and begin to rebuild. Some skilled workers did survive the fires. In such times as these, it will not take much to entice workers with food and shelter. However, any such effort will require coin. And we have none."

"Surely there must be some gold left," Jon is taken aback. "How else did Cersei pay for the Golden Company."

"The Lady Genna offered me sovereignty over Dragonstone," Harry explains. "And I could not refuse a chance to return my brothers to our rightful home. However, if it is coin you want, the great beast outside is worth the wages of a hundred lifetimes."

"No," Jon insists. "Drogon was a noble creature. In many ways, he was a child to Daenerys. I will not use him to line the kingdom's coffers."

"I have loved the dragons longer than you, your grace," Missandei offers. "But perhaps hard choices must be made."

"They must indeed," Jon grips the throne tighter. "And I will make them. I choose to not defile the fallen dragons."

"While we are making hard choices," Harry interjects, "I feel we must address the incident at the Dragonpit. The Baratheon boy made a spectacle of defiance. He and the Westerners must be brought to heel. You have been too soft on these rebel lords. They do not fear you as they should."

"The Ironborn and Western armies are small," Missandei observes. "And Gendry Baratheon does not speak for every Stormlord. If they act recklessly, then they will be dealt with. But we ought not to court war."

"You forget the Dothraki and the Unsullied. They grow restless without their queen. And my own men aside, there are few in Westeros who can stand against them."

"I am very familiar with them both. They will not move against a dragonrider. And they will listen to me. Show mercy to Gendry, Yara and the rest. Wait. When they see their position is untenable, they will see reason."

Jon does not like that advice, it is clear. "Daenerys showed mercy when she first arrived. Look what it got her."

"I advised her to show mercy," Missandei steps to the foot of the throne, her voice rising. "It was the right decision then and remains the right decision now. Do not think that it has haunted me every day since. That every loss, every death, ending in the destruction of this city and the man I loved has not made me question whether I should have told my queen to burn this castle to the ground the day she arrived. I had seen her burn our enemies before and called it justice. But every life we takes comes at a cost to our own soul. I will not stand by and watch you make the same mistake. If you cannot see this, then perhaps you have chosen the wrong Hand!"

"Perhaps I have!" Jon shouts back, standing but Missandei does not flinch. Her hand rises to the golden pin on her chest. "No, wait!" Jon stumbles down the steps of the throne. "I am sorry, you are right. I cannot kill them all."

"But your grace," Strickland protests, "they will only continue to defy you. And every day that they do not bend the knee, more will question your authority."

"They do not fear me for they still believe in Daenerys," Jon straightens his back and looks out past the throne and the destroyed wall, to the city beyond. "They wish to see her? Than they will. She will stand trial before all the lords. And justice will be mine."

* * *

**The Neck**

Glistening ice covers the ground as the travelers from Winterfell wake in the early hours of the morning. Theon stirs a bubbling pot of gruel over a small fire. Bran Stark is tucked tightly into the curve of Ghost's belly, the white direwolf's fur warming him. He rises to find the wide golden eyes of Frost looking down at him.

"Your sleep is troubled, Raven."

"Tell me, what do you know of a one-eyed man?" Bran asks quietly.

"I have known many one-eyed men. Surely you know more than I could."

"That's what worries me," Bran shivers. "I see him in my mind, where he does not belong. His past is clouded to me. I've never felt that before." Frost is clearly concerned, but offers no answer.

"We were watched in the night," Obara reports. "Little people lurking in the bog. Still there, most like, but awful good at hiding."

"It is only the crannogmen. They will leave us be," Bran answers. _Those are Meera's people_, he thinks.

"A queer folk, those ones," Theon ponders as he passes out the porridge. "I've never met one myself. They say their ancestors bred with the Children of the Forest."

"Nurse's tales," Obara scoffs. She glances over at Frost. "I can't imagine why anyone would climb into a bed with the likes of that."

"There are far worse watchers in the night," Frost ignores the comment. "Not all of which can be seen by sentries."

"Fetch me parchment," Bran asks. "There are stirrings in the land Jon must know of."

"We didn't bring a raven…" Theon hesitates, until a large crow, cawing uproariously, lands beside him.

"Any bird will do," Bran forces a smile. "And please, eat quickly Theon. We don't have long."

As Theon rushes to choke down the piping hot porridge, Obara kicks out the fire and Frost helps Bran climb back atop Ghost. But as he looks back, the corner of his vision catches a glimpse of a watcher in the marsh. No crannogman. But a tall, black-haired stranger with a crow's head, wings of shadow, tentacles of smoke and one eye glowing with a piercing fire. When he blinks, it is gone. But in his mind, the crow's eye remains.

* * *

_Special Guest Star Anthony Starr as Gunthor Hightower_

_AN: So COVID-19 is a wild time. Adjusting to the changes the pandemic brought caused a slight delay, but Shelter At Home means more time to write, so the final few chapters should be out quicker than usual! As always, all feedback is greatly appreciated._


	37. Trial of the Dragon

**Chataya's Brothel**

Yara Greyjoy lies chilled in her sleep, unhelped by the warm bodies of the women at her sides. Despite her comfort, her sleep is disturbed, haunted by a distant laughter and the sound of dark music.

Waking in a cold sweat, she sits upright with a start, body tingling with goosebumps. Her braziers have gone out. There is no light. And she hears it still. A voice, singing, somewhere in the darkness. A song she knows from her nightmares.

_It's always summer under the sea._

Reaching beneath one of the many embroidered pillows, she draws a long dirk and creeps to the edge of the bed. A silent gasp chokes in her lungs – the dark floor is alive, writhing with oily black tentacles. The silk curtains come loose in her hands and she falls, slamming hard onto the floor. She feels the shapes around her, slithering over her skin, grabbing at her arms and legs. She lashes out in the dark, slashing her own leg.

She tries to call out in pain, but her throat is stopped, clenching shut beneath invisible hands. She looks up to see the shadow standing over her, a shadow with no face, but a crow's beak and a single, burning eye. Euron.

_The water burns, Yara. So will you._

"My queen, what's wrong?" The cry of one of the whores, Marei, she thinks, frees Yara from whatever dark vision holds her. She rises, shaking, to her feet.

"It's nothing, sweetling. Go back to sleep."

"It must be near morning, your grace."

"Oh. Shit."

Ignoring the wound on her leg, Yara pulls on her simple sailor's clothes and stalks up to the roof of the brothel. There she finds Damion Lannister in his crimson and gold armor, lost in his own thoughts, surveying the hellscape of a ruined city.

"There's your legacy now, Tywin," he mutters to himself. "Everything you sacrificed, everyone you stepped on, all for a lot of rubble and ruin in the end."

"Lord Hand," Yara breaks his attention. "You choose a strange hour to recollect."

"Nothing worth remembering," Damion turns to her. "Only the follies of men and their dreams." He notes the blood seeping through her trousers. "Your leg…"

"It's nothing," Yara shakes the night terrors out of her head. "The past is dead. Ready the council. We have no need for ghosts."

* * *

**The Red Keep**

A rotten chunk of orange falls down from the ramparts as Missandei carves away at a citrus pulled from the storeroom. On this early morning, she walks with Ser Davos Seaworth.

"I can't imagine you've ever seen the likes of this winter," the onion knight muses.

"I had never seen snow until I crossed the sea," Missandei remembers. "Now it is everywhere. I cannot say I like it. But on Naath we teach that all of creation is born of the Lord of Harmony. All life is beautiful in its own way."

"Well, I must say I wish your Lord of Harmony had made the winters a little warmer," Davos tightens his cloak, his old fingers cracking beneath their gloves. They stop, noticing the scorched ruins of the Tower of the Hand. "So this is where it ended. I heard the Red Woman was slain here."

"I never knew her."

"Then that's your pleasure. She was a wicked creature."

"So I've heard." Missandei lets the peels fall, the orange all gone. She spies a rat in the rubble beneath them drag it back away into a crevice. "I hear whispers among the birds that it was Lord Tyrion who finally delivered your justice."

"Then I shall have to thank him," Davos turns to walk on. "But later. The king awaits. Strickland is already with him, no doubt."

"Do you trust the Golden Company?" Missandei matches his pace.

"They are sellswords. But they are founded by banished lords and outcasts. They want a home. So long as they believe Jon is the man who can ensure their security, they will serve him well. And their general is wise, if ruthless. A king needs such men."

"And what type of a man is the king?" Missandei has stopped again. Davos looks back, confused. "I served Daenerys for years. And yet I never thought her capable of something like this." She gestures out to the ruined city. "You knew King Aemon when he was just the bastard of Winterfell. I want to know what sort of man I serve."

"I once served another whose darkness I could not predict," Davos sighs, remembering the past. "But Jon is not Stannis. Rhaegar may have given him blood, but Ned Stark was his true father. And no man knew honor and duty better. There are many stories I might tell you. But later. For now, this council must counsel."

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

Ser Rolland Storm kneels as Lord Commander Jon Bettley drapes the white cape of the Kingsguard over the broad shoulders of the bearded knight. Completing his vows, Rolland stands to take his place beside Ser Argilac Horpe and others honored today – Ser Cregan Ryswell and Ser Myles Manwoody.

He smiles back at Princess Arianne Martell, who proudly watches the wayward knight who had guarded her for so long. As the ceremony draws to a close, the white-clad knights assume position in line with the throne. The king moves to see Arianne on her way.

"We thank you for commending your guardian's service," Jon genteelly kisses her hand. As he rises, she grasps his and pulls herself near to his body, close enough that their crowns meet with a metallic scratch.

"Ser Rolland has served me nobly and loyally," she whispers. Her breath smells of flowers. "He has all the knightly qualities a king shall require. I am glad I could serve you thusly. Please, let me know if I may yet fulfill any of your other kingly needs…" Jon stiffens as her hand slides down the length of his inner thigh.

"Such services," he coughs, breaking away, "will not be necessary."

"As you wish, your grace," Arianne bows. "But may I request a small honor?"

"What do you wish?" Jon is reluctant to look back at her as he climbs the throne.

"These times of war were hard upon my family. I stand before you as the last Martell, at least in name. I beseech you, grant legitimacy to my noble uncle's daughters, Sarella and Elia, so that they may carry on the Red Viper's legacy."

Looking down from the throne, Jon cannot help but remember the long nights at Winterfell, dreaming of such an offer. How can he say no?

"It is granted. Lady Missandei shall procure formal documentation."

"Thank you, your grace," Arianne smiles and bows again, slowly and sensually, before turning to saunter out of the hall. Jon tears his eyes away as she departs, turning instead to his council.

"Two white cloaks remain unfilled," Harry Strickland observes.

"I hope to claim knights of the Reach and Vale in their place," Jon answers. "Missandei, are any fresh troubles arisen among the lords this morning?"

"A Ser Bonifer Hasty has raised concerns regarding the practices of healers treating the victims of the fires. He believes that witchcraft is at play, and that the Seven will cast judgement upon the city once again."

"Have the patients recovered?" Jon asks.

"Many, yes."

"Then Hasty is a fool. See that he does not cause further trouble," Jon's eyes darken. "Now, there are other matters. I cannot risk Daenerys' allies attempting any disruption at the trial. I will need you to procure hostages."

"Hostages?"

"Yes, close to Yara and the others. People they will not risk losing." Jon can tell that Missandei is reluctant. "If you do not think you can, I will ask Captain Strickland."

Missandei casts a glance to Davos, then at the gilded man beside her. "Your wish is my command, your grace. It will be done by my hand."

* * *

**Arianne's Quarters**

Arianne returns to find Sansa Stark waiting for her, sitting rigidly with a bottle of wine, ignoring idle chatter from Lord Fowler. She seems tired. But the poor northern girl always seems that way, Arianne thinks.

"You've been to see the king," Sansa rises to greet her.

"Indeed. I have pledged my personal protector and one of Dorne's finest knights into the service of his Kingsguard," Arianne replies "And have secured the boon of legitimacy for my cousins."

"Perhaps I ought to offer him one of my own guard," Sansa broods, "for I cannot seem to find a way for him to receive me."

"He may be afraid of what you will ask. Will the North give up freedom so easily for him?" Sansa does not answer. "The king most certainly has a strong will. He has thus far resisted me, as no man I've met ever has."

"How tragic that must be," Sansa pulls away.

"Oh, I meant no ill will!" Arianne chases after her. "As I said before, we are allies in this. I was glad to see you, for I wished to speak about my cousin, Elia. Until the time I am with child, I plan to make her my heir. It would be a great honor if your Lady Brienne would come to train her. And perhaps your sister, as well. Elia would adore a sword such as Arya's. Needle, is that it?"

"Please, do not bother me with platitudes. I came to speak to you of the king. Do not tell me how we are so alike. For you, I am only a way into the royal bed!" Sansa grabs the wine and begins to storm out, but Arianne pulls her back.

"Please, leave if you like," she implores. "But do not doubt my sincerity. Believe me when I say, I want the same things as you. The best for the king. The best for my people. And the best for myself, so that no one will ever hurt me again." She places her hand on Sansa's stomach, where she knows the scars lie.

"I will speak to Brienne," Sansa says plainly. Thanking Lord Fowler for the wine, she exits.

* * *

**The Burn Ward**

Garin leans close to a badly burned peasant, one hand hovering close to the red, scalded skin, the other holding a bowl of water. As a boy, his grandmother had done this countless times. He tries to remember the incantation Mallora Hightower had taught him, though it was less about the words, she said, and more a matter of feeling the water's spirit as it touches the flesh. He watches the salve sink into the burn and steps away, unsure when he will know if the healing magic works.

"Patience, boy," Mallora seemingly answers his thoughts from the shadow. He had forgotten she was watching. "Such things take time."

She leads him out of the tent and back into her study, where they find Sarella waiting with Samwell Tarly.

"I found this one brooding in his quarters, trying to cast some paltry spell you taught him," Sarella pushes him forward. "Quite the mighty wizard."

"I miss Gilly," Sam groans, collapsing into the nearest chair. "And I'm worried this is all my fault. I shouldn't have said anything until I met Jon."

"I tried to tell him that he didn't personally make the dragon queen destroy the city. And I told him that Gilly could travel here with a fine Dornish guard. But that is a long journey. So I thought to myself, Sarella, where better to take the man who cured greyscale?"

"Do you have work for me?" Sam looks up sheepishly at Mallora.

"Look around," Mallora throws her arms up. "Between the wounded and the rubble, there is no end to our work. And half of the workers are zealots or children. You have followed Qyburn's texts before. Take an apron and get to work." She hurries him out of the study. "And do not try spells without me to instruct you! You are no mage!"

The grey-haired woman turns back, exasperated.

"I also believe your brother is looking for you," Sarella mentions.

"Then tell Humfrey to bring shovels or salve," Mallora chases her out. "If he tries to drag me into Baelor's politics, then he'll truly see how mad the Mad Maid can be!"

* * *

**The Stark Quarters**

_I need to leave, _Sansa thinks as she hurries back._ There are too many memories here. I belong in Winterfell, I could be strong there. But, here I only see Jofferey and Cersei in every window..._

Her moods worsens to find a pack of shaggy Skagosi unicorns tied in front of the manse. Those awful creatures are the last thing she needs now. Leaving her guard with her horse, she rushes around to the rear entrance, headlong into Mycah Manderly. She gasps, dropping the Dornish wine. Thankfully, Mycah catches it.

"Why are they here?" Sansa asks as he returns the wine to her hands.

"To speak to you, of course," he smiles. "You do rule the North now, as far as I can tell."

"Oh, gods, I do not need to think about that right now," she scrambles to open the wine as they walk inside. "I've gone and ruined everything again. We need Dorne as allies, and I couldn't do it. She's trying to use Jon, I know it. But am I trying to use him, just the same?"

"He's your brother!"

"He's the king! And I'm still a scared little bird who can't trust anyone, even when everyone else is depending on it!" Finally getting the wine open, she takes a long drink. As she finishes, Mycah grabs her hands.

"Do you trust me?"

She pauses, swallowing, and looks into the sea in his eyes.

"Yes."

"Then believe me when I say, you are the strongest person I know. I can't imagine surviving what you've been through. There is no one better suited to rule the North. And Arianne sees that. But you have to believe it yourself. And you have to show them." He points through the door to where the Skagosi await.

Silently, Sansa allows herself to smile and brushes a stray hair from Mycah's face. She kisses him softly and steps through the door. Lady Tyranna Stane waits with two of her men, the brutish warriors clearly impatient.

"Would you like wine?" Sansa offers.

"We do not need your fruit piss," Tyranna states, bluntly. "We need truth. We were promised a seat at King Jon's table in North. Now Jon is Aemon and we are far from North."

"I assure you, Lady Stane," Sansa extends a reassuring hand. "Your people's sacrifices are honored by us all. The vows made by House Stark will not be broken."

"Then you speak as Winterfell, lady wolf?"

Sansa pauses, but only for a moment longer.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

* * *

**Highgarden**

Art Hightower and Talla Tarly stand at attention in the yard as the banners of Hightower, Redwyne and their bannermen wind through the arbor. Oddly enough, Art spots the Tyrell rose. There remain distant cousins of the family scattered across the Reach, including the short, fat vintner Leo Tyrell, personal steward to Hobber Redwyne. None would dare to fly the noble sigil after Cersei had declared the Tyrells traitors to the realm. Until today.

All the guests, from the highest lords and ladies to lowest cook, have assembled for the Beacon of the South's arrival. Even Ser Bronn and his new wife, the head gardener's daughter, are in their finest clothes. A cheer rises as the gates swing open. The sigil bearers ride at the head, followed by the leaders of the party. A great, ornate wheelhouse trundles along behind them.

Lord Baelor Hightower makes a clattering, awkward sight in his bronzed armor, helm and flowing orange cape. How long it has been since his father has worn plate or ridden a horse, Art doesn't know, but judging by his tottering stance in the saddle, it has been far too long. Alongside the likes of Ser Desmond Redwyne and Lord Mathis Rowan, he looks positively comical.

Bronn steps forward to great the arrivals, and the nobles rush to follow. Art makes quick pace to his father's horse as Baelor struggles to bring it to a halt. He grabs the reigns to steady the great chestnut steed and Baelor nearly topples to the ground. Bronn steadies the lord as he lands. But as Baelor pries free his ill-fitted helm, Art is surprised to see a new look upon his father's tired face – confidence. For the first time in his life, perhaps, Baelor Hightower, known better for his smile than his skill or wit, looks like a lord.

"Father!" Art begins to speak as the wheelhouse opens and the noblewomen disembark, led by his mother, Rhonda and sister, Hela. "If we may speak in private, I have had talks regarding the succession process, and…"

"Wait, boy!" Baelor interrupts to embrace his son, flashing his famous smile. "Your mother and I have far grander news for you!"

Confused, Baelor turns to see Ser Desmond has joined Lady Rhonda. Between them stands a short, slender girl in a soft purple dress and lilac cloak. From beneath a fur-lined hood spills crimson curls around a pale, freckle-spotted face.

"Arthur," Rhonda smiles, nearly as widely as her husband. "Meet Lady Desmera Redwyne. Your betrothed!"

* * *

**A Tavern**

Lord Tybolt Crakehall stares down at his empty mug and dinner plate, his braided beard dripping into the remains of his gravy. He looks across the table at Lord Damion's squire – the young Robert Brax. Like Tybolt, Robert has only recently become a lord upon his father's death. Unlike Tybolt, Robert is still just a boy, his mind scarred by the red priests, and his father was a traitor. He has not touched his food. Annoyed, Tybolt claims the squire's dinner for himself.

"I saw my brother today, you know, in his fancy Queensguard armor," he rambles with his mouth full. "He asked about father, if I was with him when he tied. And I wasn't. He died on the battlefield, like a Crakehall should. And I damn well cut down the fucker who killed him. And Merlon, well, that made him proud to know. So how come I still feel like shit?"

He looks for a response from Robert. But the boy's burnt face, branded with the flaming heart of R'Hllor, does not move nor speak.

"See, your lord Damion, he says legacies are a fool's game," Tybolt continues. "That we all turn to dust in the end. All we got is what we can give ourselves today. But then what did father die for? Or my brother Lyle? What's the point if a cause ain't worth nothing? But then if he did die for Daenerys, and now Daenerys don't even get the throne, where's his legacy?"

"A legacy can take many forms, Lord Crakehall," Missandei appears behind them, following Alys' lead. Two of the Golden Company loom ominously behind her. "Often in places the dead would have never imagined to look." Tybolt freezes, unsure of how to respond. "I would like to speak to young Lord Brax."

"You want him as a hostage, don't ya'," the huge man rises. Missandei, surprised by his sudden lucidity, steps back. The knights move to defend her, but Tybolt raises his hands. "Damion don't give a shit 'bout the boy. The priests broke him. Take me instead."

Hesitant at first, the knights begin to bind Tybolt. He shakes his head at Robert.

"Get out of here, boy. And don't speak a word of this!"

Robert retreats slowly out of the tavern.

"Follow him," Missandei tells Alys, and the little bird flits out into the streets after the squire. She watches the knights lead Tybolt away. And, nervously, she asks the barkeep for water to wash her hands.

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

The wildling Sigorn, Lord Harwood Stout, Robbet Glover and Hugo Knott gather around the throne, the leaders of the Northern army. At least, those who still follow Jon. It has been too long since he left the army he led south alongside Daenerys. Now he must learn where they stand.

"There is no mourning for the Lannisters or their city in the camp," Glover states bluntly. "The men do not doubt that, had they arrived before the queen, they would have acted no differently. War is war, and these people cheered as Ned Stark was slain."

"I would not have allowed it," Jon insists.

"As I said, war is war. A general cannot always control their armies. And how many northmen would have died in a siege? We ended the fight without losing another life."

"And at what cost? How many innocent lives? Do you mean to say that…"

"I mean nothing, your grace," Glover puts his foot down. "Only that there are few in the North who would pass judgement upon Daenerys."

"I do not need their judgement, only their loyalty."

"The freefolk trust your word," Sigorn says, simply.

"And the mountain clans?" he looks to Hugo Knott.

Hugo shakes his head. "The Wull says that it is not you, but Daenerys who his father followed down from the mountains and died for in the long night."

"We all died for each other against the Walkers!" Jon yells, finally losing his temper. "We came together to defeat something greater than all of us! How do we forget so quickly? It just goes round and round and round and nothing ever changes! She's right. Gods save me, she's right…"

"Who's right, your grace?" Hugo is confused.

"Nothing," Jon begins to wonder off. "I wish for rest." However, it is at that moment that Missandei enters. With her are six of the Golden Company and, bound in chains, three hooded figures. Jon rushes to them as the northerners are ushered out.

"Are these the ones we spoke of?" he asks his Hand. She nods, and begins to remove their shrouds. The first is an ugly, hunch-backed man.

"Ser Hotho Harlaw, Yara Greyjoy's cousin and heir to her uncle's lands." The second, a huge, docile knight. "Lord Tybolt Crakehall, a Lannister bannerman." She pulls the hood from the final, smallest prisoner, just a boy. "And Nigel Tudburry, Lord Gendry's squire."

"Well done," Jon nods, approvingly. "See to it they are treated well." The hostages are led away. When Jon turns back to the throne, he sees that a crow has flown through the ruined wall and landed in his seat.

"The bird fancies itself a king, your grace," Missandei quips, happy to find some levity.

"Indeed," Jon walks nearer. "There is something queer about its eyes…"

The crow looks knowingly at Jon, as if it understands his words. And it is then that he sees the roughly torn parchment tied to its leg.

"Bran…"

"Bran?" Missandei is confused.

Jon does not answer, instead he gently unwraps the missive from the bird's wing. Freed of its duty, it takes flight as quickly as it had appeared. Jon unrolls the small scroll, his mood growing fouler with each alarming word.

"It is word from my bro… Prince Bran of Winterfell."

"Your, grace, I'm afraid I don't understand. That did not look to be a maester's raven."

"Strange ways are afoot in this world, where the things we know shrink instead of grow… Bran says that the Vale is marching in force, led by Robin Arryn, who styles himself a King of Mountain and Vale."

"Yet another?"

"And there is more. I fear I may require your services away from the city for a time."

"Away? Your grace, I am your Hand, I belong at your side."

"There are times when the Hand must speak for the king where he himself cannot go," Jon hands off the note. "I need you to be my voice in the Reach. I need you to return to Highgarden."

* * *

**The God's Eye**

The haunted towers of Harrenhal loom down over the northern shore of the God's Eye, covered in a frigid mist. Out of the haze moves Ghost, the huge white direwolf's paws crunching in frozen mud. Bran Stark clings precariously on its back, his guardians close behind.

"Who do you suppose lives there now?" Theon wonders.

"No one in their right mind," Obara grumbles. The troupe stops as Ghost begins to growl, the long white hairs on his back rising on end. Obara examines the ground. "We aren't alone here, prince…"

"I know," Bran shrugs off the warning. "They are not a threat."

"Somehow that doesn't calm me," Obara stalks ahead into the reeds along the shore, spear poised in front of her. She hears a reed snap and turns, only to see a net rise up out of the brush and ensnare her. A girl appears with a pronged spear, knocking Obara to the ground as she flails in the net. At the sound of fighting, Ghost lunges forward, flattening the plants. He stops, letting out a violent howl and a tall, awkward boy rushes out with an axe, screaming.

"Stop!" Bran shouts over the ruckus. At once, Ghost is silent, and the prince on his back looks down at the girl standing over the captured Sand Snake. "Meera."

"You." Meera Reed glares for a moment, then lashes out with her spear, catching Bran hard in the side and knocking him down. Ghost begins to attack, Theon draws his sword and finally Frost rushes forward between them all, throwing down her cowl to reveal the inhuman face beneath. Meera freezes.

"By the gods… you're one of them." She drops to her knees, throwing the spear aside.

"Am… am I supposed to kneel?" the boy asks.

"Get down, Hos!" Meera hisses. He listens, and slowly from behind him a small crowd of children appear out of the reeds.

"I do not require your tribute," Frost looks down, almost disgusted by the proselytization.

"We only need your boat," Bran points through the broken marsh to where a wooden cog can be spotted on the shore. "And Theon, this is Hoster Blackwood. Fetch him his father's things."

"How do you… Oh," Theon remembers whom he serves and rushes back to his horse to retrieve the ancient rune-blade of House Blackwood, and the late Lord Tytos' raven-feather cloak. He hands them over to an awe-struck Hos.

"Your father was a dear teacher to me," Bran bestows the gift. "He died valiantly against the Night King. I know you are not his heir, but until you may return to Raventree Hall…"

"No time for chatter!" Frost hisses. "We must make way to the Isle!" No one wishes to argue with the mystic creature, and they fall in line to the water's edge. The lake is shrouded by the dark fog, the pewter water resembles cold steel.

"All this time and you finally return with a Child of the Forest, just to steal my boat?" Meera shakes her head, helping flip Bran into the small vessel.

"No," he answers. "You're coming with me."

"There's no way we'll all fit…" Theon states the obvious.

"Obara will stay with Hos and the other children," Bran commands. "The rest of us will carry on." On command, Ghost lurches forward into the boat. Meera and Frost follow.

"Do you know how to use that that thing?" Obara glances at Hos as he holds _Remembrance_ clumsily. "Or are you going to cut your own head off the moment I look away?"

"No, my lady," the lad answers sheepishly.

"Do I look like a lady to you?" She glances angrily to Theon, who shrugs as he climbs into the boat. Giving up, she crashes down atop a log and watches the prince and his guardians vanish into the icy mist.

* * *

**The Ruins of Flea Bottom**

"What are we doing here, Arya?" Gendry grumbles as his slim black stallion lurches along after Arya's pale grey workhorse through the burnt out wreckage of the city. He had nary gotten used to his new, fine mount from the stables of Storms' End. And he would much rather be racing it in open field, not tripping through the burned and broken streets of the haunted city. It reminds him far too much of Harrenhaal.

"Don't you see where we are?" Arya asks. Gendry brings the stallion to a stop and looks about. All the rubble looks the same. But something seems familiar. "This is Flea Bottom," she declares. "Or at least it was."

As recognition dawns, Gendry slips off from his mount. He places foot by foot along the blackened stone at his feet, picturing the years of his life spent walking these paths. Then he wore rags. Now he wears fine Baratheon colors. But the streets are the same. He knows his way now, and begins to run. He can hear Arya's horse behind him, but pays it no heed until he stops. And a fat droplet of rain hits his eye. Master Tobho's shop.

There's nothing left.

He pieces through the crumbled shell of his life before the war, before 'Arry, before the dead and the dragons and his sister and Storms' End. There it is, half-melted by flame but still amidst the rubble – the new bull's helm he had made before fleeing the city for the second time. He holds the warped metal up to his face as the rain begins to fall harder.

"Did Tobho deserve this?" Arya asks.

He turns back, angrily. "Is that why you brought me here? To blame me?"

"No!"

"This… this was another life," he holds the helm up to her. "Gendry Waters! But that boy died by the decree of Daenerys Targaryen. I am Gendry Baratheon now, and I swore a vow to defend my queen. This was wrong. But even great men make mistakes. I cannot betray Daenerys. Because if she was wrong…" Tears begin to form in his eyes, mixing with the rain rolling down his face. He tears at the stag embroidered on his chest. "Then she was wrong about me, too!"

"Gendry, please, no one thinks that!" Arya jumps down from her horse and runs to him, but he throws the helm at her feet.

"You loved Gendry Waters. And I loved 'Arry. And somewhere, I think, somewhere they're still lost out there in the woods. And I think they're happy. Because if they ever got found, well, then they'd have to grow up! And face the facts! I've never asked you to betray Jon. I wish you wouldn't ask me the same."

With that he turns, his stallion caught up with them, and climbs back up, hoping Arya hasn't seen him cry. On the ground, her own tears run free as she picks up the bull's helm. The warped, twisted metal cuts her hand, now coated in soot. Wiping her eyes clear only smears her face with ash and blood. And then she hears hooves splashing away.

Arya watches him ride off into the rain until she can watch no more. She looks back, deep into the charred labyrinth behind her. And for a moment, she thinks she sees a ghost in the shadows.

Jaquen H'Ghar.

But that cannot be. She does not look again. It is wet out, and she needs shelter.

* * *

**Daenerys' Cell**

Ser Argilac holds a torch high to guide Missandei as she walks through what remains of the Red Keep's dungeon. She hears a soft singing coming from Euron's cell, and presses on until at last she has arrived.

"Missandei." She hears her queen's voice from within the cell. "I should have known. I had already lost your heart. And now you leave me."

"How do you…"

"My eyes have been opened by the light."

Missandei gestures silently for Argilac to open the door. The knight reluctantly follows. As light flickers in, Missandei steps forth to see Daenerys. She sits in the center of the cell, cross-legged. She seems at peace, healthier than when Missandei had found her beside Drogon after the devastation.

"He made you his Hand," she will not look at her. "An irony. And now he sends you to swat flies in Highgarden so you do not see what the wretched lords of this land have planned for me."

"You will face justice," Missandei insists.

"What is justice? This show of virtue, a carnival to let them sleep at night that they were in the right, and that the woman from across the sea lies dead for her sins. And the wheel spins on and on and on. Not all chains are made of steel. You have helped them ensnare the world."

"No!" Missandei steps forward, gritting her teeth, but still Daenerys does not look up. "You broke my chains. You made me strong. You made me who I am. I loved you for it, I worshipped you! And I still do. That is why I told him I would go. Because I cannot bear to watch you receive what you deserve."

At last, Daenerys looks up.

"This is the last time I will see you in this world, Missandei of Naath. Pray it will not haunt you."

* * *

**Beneath the Red Keep**

Two small torches flit through the darkness in the crumbling tunnels hidden centuries ago by Maegor the Cruel. Three figures move in dark cloaks, nervously looking behind them – Sarella, Garin and Princess Arianne.

"You're going to get us killed for a damn dream!" Sarella hisses at her cousin.

"Not just a dream!" Arianne whispers back, but pulls her cowl lower all the same. In the middle of the night, a vision had come to her of a creature, part-man and part-crow, with one burning eye. It had led her to these tunnels, and before the memory could fade, she had taken to the streets. "And you are a Martell now besides. You owe this to me."

"A noble name is worth nothing if I'm dead," Sarella replies.

"Wait!" Garin, in the lead, bids them stop. "Where the hell are we?" He lowers his torch to illuminate a poorly hidden chest. Inside lies a suit of red and silver Targaryen plate. Sarella bends down to examine the earth, and raises a stray coin from Pentos.

"The Golden Company…" she murmurs. "What are they doing here…"

But Arianne hears none of this, for she has crept further on. A crack in the wall let's her gaze through to what lies beyond. And then she knows why this vision has come. Lying in the bed, not three yards away from where she hides with bated breath, is Jon Snow, King Aemon Targaryen, asleep in his bed

* * *

**The God's Eye**

Even the great towers of Harrenhal are gone from sight now. It's as if the whole world has been consumed by the unyielding fog, leaving only the little boat, listing perilously to one side under Ghost's weight. It cuts through the water not by oars, the water itself seems to carry it along, propelled, no doubt, by some spell worked by Frost at the helm. Meera and Bran sit behind, each unwilling to look at the other for too long. Theon nervously stands guard at the rear.

The island does not appear until they are almost upon it, rising up out of the mist like a great leviathan ready to consume them. But the boat simply shudders to a halt on its shore. Eager to be back on land, Ghost leaps out, nearly overturning the others. He rushes onto the darkly forested shores and seems, to Bran, at home.

But, as the direwolf rushes about on the beach, silhouettes emerge from the woods. Theon and Meera nervously reach for arms, but Bran stays their hands. The figures, small in stature, step into the dim light – brown and green garments covered in moss and bark, their skin smeared with green paint, with huge wooden horn and antlers adorning their helms, adding feet to their short height. Frost steps forward in greeting.

"He has arrived," she points to Bran.

Their leader steps forward and buries an ancient looking sword in the sand. Slowly, he removes his helm and places it beside the sword. And Meera gasps. Even beneath the green paint, the narrow, weathered features are clear.

"At last we meet, Raven," Howland Reed kneels, solemnly before Bran. "And now, all is complete."

* * *

**The Dragonpit**

A crowd the likes that Sansa has never seen, even at Jofferey's wedding, has come to the pit today. Each lord and lady within the city, including new ones arriving every day, have come to see the trial. There are elephants, unicorns and a dragon. Dothraki, Ironborn and Unsullied. And the king who was once her brother, high upon his dais and far away from her own seat.

She hears a ruckus behind her and turns to see several men accosting Tyrion Lannister.

"Leave him be!" she commands, and Brienne ensures he receives safe passage and a seat at her side. She knows this trial will not be easy for him, and offers wine. He declines.

Jon sits stiffly. At his sides are Lord Harlan Dondarrion and Lord Franklyn Fowler, both learned men whose knowledge of the law is well-known and will preside with him over the proceedings. He grips the arms of his chair tightly, grateful they are not as sharp as his throne, as Daenerys is led into the center of the pit.

His heart breaks at the sound of jeers and curses in the crowd.

"Silence!" Harlan bellows, and Jon silently thanks him as quiet begins to spread. "This is a trial. We will have order!"

"The accused shall rise!" Lord Fowler decrees. "She stands charged of grievous crimes of war, specifically, the wanton slaughter of unarmed civilians."

Jon watches carefully the tents of Yara Greyjoy and Damion Lannister, waiting for any signs of a threat. But instead, Daenerys begins to speak.

"In the years to come, many men will offer stories of why I did what I did," She is addressing the crowd, paying little heed to the judges. "They will say that I went mad. That the loss of those I loved made me lose my mind. That I was a weak woman who could not control myself. But they will lie. I was a queen at war. And at war, sacrifices must be made.

"They wish to judge my crimes. But I stand here in judgement of your crimes. The crimes that have turned your land into a feast for crows. You, you mighty lords in your high towers, who will judge you when you steal from those in need? When you break the backs of those beneath you and send their sons to die in the name of your greed and lust for power?

"I am that judgement. For too long, the people have waited in darkness. Their gods did not answer their prayers. But the Lord of Light did. I brought fiery justice upon this city, but it was only a spark. And the fire it lights will bring forth a summer that never ends, where all men are free! You cannot judge me. Only the gods can. I will face my accuser myself in the manner that befits a king. I demand a Trial of Seven!"

* * *

_A/N: To my fellow fans of Gendry+Arya - Yes, these are trying times for them, once again. Arya is my favorite character, I think, and I love Gendry, as well. Tragically, both of them had their lives uprooted very young and didn't necessarily have the best environments to recover and mature. They're both stuck in arrested development, of sorts, children playing in adult bodies at adult games. And neither are in a place for a healthy relationship right now. But if there is ever a time for growth, it's spring. And spring is coming._


	38. The Isle of Faces Part 1

**The Isle of Faces**

Meera had told Bran of the Green Men who guarded the Isle of Faces. And Old Nan had told him of them before that. And now these horn-helmed woodland warriors of lore march him and his companions through the heart of their sacred isle. The woods are unlike any Bran has seen outside his visions – they seem to carry their own kind of darkness, they feel unbearably damp and they are filled with weirwoods.

There are more of the great white trees and their red leaves here than anywhere else in the world. And each carved face seems to follow the path of the new arrival. Bran, however, focuses on Howland and Meera Reed. She had been delighted to find her father alive. He said it was only the magic taught to him by the Children that saved him from Daenerys' red priests. And now, Howland leads the way into a great stone amphitheater. Four levels descend down to the bottom of a hollow. The rocks are ancient and covered with moss, but they have not crumbled, looking as strong as the day they were laid. Above them, tangled white weirwood branches form a twisted canopy to block out the sky, letting the light twist through and shine down in strange shapes upon the stone.

_Perhaps this is where they signed the pact of peace with the First Men?_ Bran thinks. _Or, more ominously, where they summoned the Hammer of Waters to break the arm of Dorne._

The Green Men stand in a circle around the travelers as the reach the bottom. Howland blows a horn, an ancient and musty sound. At its call, Ghost joins, throwing his great snout back in a howl. And slowly they come – the Children of the Forest, dozens, creeping one by one out of the dark glen and into the light. Theon shuffles nervously closer to Ghost at the sight.

"Welcome home, Raven," Frost looks to Bran as she rises to rejoin her brethren. "You come on the eve of our darkest hour. Your ascension must begin."

"I don't understand," Theon frowns beneath his wolfhelm. "What do they want from you? We already defeated the Night King."

"There's something worse." Dread fills Bran's voice.

"What could be worse than the Night King?"

"Whatever the Night King was born to kill."

* * *

**The Dondarrion Quarters**

A flurry of feathers fly into the air as eight ducks dash through a makeshift maze of chairs, pillows and over-turned tables. Their quacking cacophony is matched only by the roar of the nobles surrounding the race, each cheering their chosen fowl. Rolly Duckfield and young Grif, however, are busy counting the gold wagered on their scheme.

"You boys have found yourselves a golden goose, it seems," Wynafryd Manderly approaches from behind, leaning between the two Golden Company men. She begins to playfully count the golden bands on Duck's arms. "For any one of those ducks, you could melt yourself a new ring, I'd wager."

"This isn't for the gold," Grif looks back. "It's just the game of it. Fascinating what it shows about the ones who play."

Wynafryd slides down onto Duck's lap. She watches the lords, ladies and knights, pushing and shoving to get a closer look at the race. For a moment, she spies her betrothed, Tywin, watching her, but the nervous lad quickly looks away. And then Duck flips a coin. She squeals as the cold metal drops into her bosom.

"You'd best get that out," she whispers in his ear. "Can't let them think I'm a whore."

Just as Duck's fingers flit to retrieve his coin, the doors slam open. Lord Harlan Dondarrion storms in, flanked by Ser Steffon and Meraxes Horpe.

"What is the meaning of this?" Harlan demands as the nobles scatter. Wyanfryd rolls off of Duck to the the floor. The lightning lord prowls the room, showing equal disdain for his peers and lessers alike. "Where did you find these damned ducks?" Tywin, clutching two of them in his arms, gulps a silent reply. "The city is starving, and you lot sit in here playing games with your dinner? Get out!"

Quickly, the nobles scatter, few even bothering to reclaim their gold, which Duck happily pockets. Harlan stops Tywin and Edric Dayne as they try to corral the birds.

"The Horpes will take care of that," he glowers. His son is covered in feathers and the dung of frightened fowl. "Tywin, clean yourself, you look ridiculous. And you, Edric, I'm very disappointed. I expect this nonsense from my boy. But you…. Get on out. Your aunt will be here soon, with the rest of my family."

As the lads leave, Harlan notes that Ser Daemon Peake, his son Percy and Wynafryd all remain.

"You told me the Baratheon boy would yield," Daemon glares. "I am beginning to doubt your future as Paramount in the Stormlands."

"And I am beginning to doubt your relevance," Harlan dismisses the dark-eyed knight. "Have you not heard? Your son's betrothal to Talla Tarly is a failure. She will marry Hobber Redwyne instead, and rule at his side from Highgarden." Daemon almost strikes him at the insult, but Harlan has moved on the the table, where Grif and Duck have left behind some gold. "There are exiled Peakes within the Golden Company, are there not? Find out what their role in all this is. They have aroused my suspicions."

"Several of them have taken a fancy to me," Wynafryd boasts.

"That I can see," Harlan plucks the coin from her breasts. "But be careful with Tywin. I cannot have any foolishness from him if he becomes distraught."

Wynafryd and the Peakes exit, and Harlan stands alone, slowly resetting the furniture to its proper place and brushing away piles of feathers with his feet. Finally Meraxes Horpe returns.

"The ducks have been returned to their proper place," she reports.

"Excellent. Ensure your guards do not allow such frivolities again."

"My lord, if I may say, about your problem with this stag," a cruel smile crosses Meraxes' shrouded face. "The city is crumbling. Stray rubble everywhere. It would be no surprise to anyone if, say, he were to die from a falling stone."

"No!" Harlan spins about, jabbing a stiff, accusing finger in her face. "We will act honorably in all things. Even this. I will not have lesser men say I won a name for my family through murder. In all likelihood, the boy will offer himself as his queen's champion in her trial. And that will be the end of Gendry Baratheon."

* * *

**Chataya's Brothel**

A council of Daenerys' allies gathers in Yara Greyjoy's meeting room – Ser Damion Lannister, Eres, Malaqo, Lord Sebaston Farman, Gendry and Mya Baratheon and the remainder of her Queensguard.

"Our queen has vowed to defend her own name in a Trial of Seven," Damion explains. "She will require six champions to stand alongside her."

"She has a Queensguard, has she not?" Yara looks about. "Though I see only four."

"My brothers fell in defense of the queen," Ser Merlon Crakehall answers solemnly. "But we that yet live will stand."

"Good," Yara approves. "I will fight as well."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Damion's eyebrow rises. "If you should be slain…"

"I will not fail." Yara ends the discussion.

"I shall fight as well," Mya offers. "That makes seven."

"Why you?" Damion examines the Baratheons. "Did not your brother defeat Balerion Horpe in single combat?"

"I don't think we can count on any stray lightning bolts in this fight." Mya answers for Gendry.

"I do not see why we should wait," Black Spot grumbles. "The Unsullied will slay the betrayer today and end this."

"We must respect khaleesi's wishes," Malaqo insists. "And do not forget that the betrayer rides a dragon."

"Exactly," Damion insists. "There is a week until the combat. We must all keep level heads and.." his thoughts trail off. "Where is Lord Crakehall?"

"Dead, my lord," Ser Merlon answers, still mourning.

"No, are you all so daft?" Damion throws his hands in the air. "The new Lord Crakehall! Where is your brother, Tybolt? Has anyone seen him?" He had assumed the despairing lord was lost in an alehall or whorehouse somewhere, wallowing in pity for his family. But he has been gone now since the trial.

"Perhaps he is a hostage of the king?" Yara posits, disinterested. "They took my cousin and Gendry's squire. Perhaps your wayward lord is with them?"

"Why have I heard nothing of this?"

"It did not seem important at the time," Yara shrugs. "Focus on the trial." But Damian does not focus. He turns angrily to his squire, Robert.

"You were with him last, boy! Did you not see him go?"

Robert shakes his head, silently. Increasingly agitated, Damion slaps the boy, but he does not flinch.

"An impertinent squire should be whipped," Forley Prestor comments. "Perhaps he has forgotten his service to our Lord."

"Whipping him would do no good, he feels nothing!" Damion slaps the boy again. "Damn you for leaving me with a broken squire, Prestor!"

"Mind the way you speak to one of the Lord's chosen," Eres warns.

"I do not give a fig about your damned squire, Lord Hand!" Yara declares. "Adjourn this meeting and see to the preparations. That is what that little pin on your chest means, doesn't it?"

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

"I assure you, your grace, the Kingsguard will stand beside you in combat," Lord Commander Bettley vows. Counting his guards, Jon finds himself wishing he had not permitted Missandei to take Ser Argilac as guard on her journey.

"You yet only number four," Jon muses. He looks to Davos, then to Harry Strickland and his sergeants. The Golden Company were excited by the prospect of a fabled Trial by Seven. Perhaps too excited, he thinks. Particularly Grif.

"Let me fight," the blue-haired squire stands, a little too proudly, his eyes straying past Jon to the throne. "I have a warrior's blood."

"No!" Jon insists. Rhaegar's ghost still haunts his dreams, no matter what explanation Strickland holds for those visions.

"The boy is well trained," Strickland offers. "He is among the best of our Company."

"He is still just a boy," Jon insists. "And he has never fought in a war."

"I'm no older than he is!" Grif yells, offended.

"Know your place, lad." A glare from Davos silences him.

"Send your best men to me, Strickland. I shall see how they fare against the champions of my bannermen. Davos, go among the lords and gather their champions. We must act quickly."

"Perhaps you ought not to have sent Lady Missandei away?" Davos posits. "Send a raven along her path and we may return her in time."

"Bran told me the events in Highgarden would be crucial to the realm. She is needed there. Here, I need warriors. I cannot merely win this Trial. We must show to all that without a doubt, I am the true king, and am to be feared."

"Of course, your grace," Strickland bows as his sergeants leave. "The game is nearly up. And then all will fear the true king."

Davos reluctantly leaves Jon alone and follows the Golden Company out of the hall. He fears for the young king's mind, and prays that Gendry will not take up arms in this trial. He has come to love them both like sons – to see them war with words is hard enough, to have one kill the other would be too much.

Suddenly, a thin figure steps out of the shadow before him, a grey cloak pulled over pale blue garb – Lord Sebaston Farman. One of Daenerys' men.

"What are you doing here?" Davos reaches for his dagger.

"Stay your hand onion knight," Sebaston hisses. "I come with news for the king. Daenerys' champions have been chosen. I can share all and more, so long as he vows the Iron Islands will not go free."

* * *

**Tyrion's Quarters**

Tyrion Lannister yawns after another long day working among the sick and the laborers clearing the city's ruins. A curved slate rests beside him. In the day, it hangs about his neck, and he finds what voice he can through writing with chalk. But sleep does not find him yet. He toils over sketches for the rebuilding of the city. Plans for which there are no funds, nor supplies, but perhaps one day…

He hears a knock on his door. Brienne waits outside, a surprise to be sure. But not an unpleasant one. She reminds him of Jaime. The good parts of Jaime.

"I thought you would like to know," she says. "The girl is here."

She leads him to the Red Keep, where space has been set aside for the nurses and servants who followed the nobles into the city. He waddles along behind her, grimacing at the memories of his torture here. It seems no matter what he does in life, he is always pulled back to this cursed building.

Brienne pulls aside a curtain to a small chamber, a nursery for children misplaced by the devastation. He recognizes a few of the wetnurses from the camp in the Kingswood. Brienne goes to them. When she returns, the babe is in her arms.

"She has Jaime's eyes," she smiles, sadly, kneeling down to show Tyrion. He steps forward to embrace her.

Perhaps, he thinks, we are the only people in this whole lonely world who loved him for who he truly was. He looks up to see Brienne has silently begun to cry. He etches out on his slate.

_Were you there?_

She nods. "He had no fear. It was a noble end."

Tyrion looks back to the child, and feels his own tears begin to flow. He tries to remember, when did it start? When everything began to fall apart? A tear drop falls on the tiny blonde face. He wipes it away with his cuff and holds up his slate again.

_Her name is Tysha. _

* * *

**Harrenhal**

The haunted old castle sits abandoned on the shore of the God's Eye. Obara had feared some rogues would have claimed its towers as their own, but save a few freezing peasants, the great, broken halls lie empty. Some shared food and fire ensures those poor souls will be no trouble to them. The children of the river lords have been sheltered away in Kingspyre Tower. Some of them had taken to scaring the younger with ghost stories. Obara had put a stop to that. But the dark legends remain in the corner of her mind as she stalks the stone bridges high above the earth, patrolling the length of Harrenhal and waiting for Bran's return. If he ever does return. She cannot recall any tales of a man returning from the Isle of Faces.

It is on one of those lonely patrols that she sees the ghost. A tiny white specter sliding across the ground into the vast godswood. Rushing down crumbling stairs, Obara creeps nearer to the shadowy forest. It has a sickly ambience, low-hanging pines cutting at Obara's face as she makes her way into the wood. Ahead, she can catch glimpses of the white spirit, leading her deeper until it stops.

Harrenhal's hearttree has no clearing to its own. It is a huge, twisted thing, warped branches spiraling up to tangle with the pines. Its face is a terrible, hateful visage, marred by huge scars left by a dragon, centuries past. As Obara steps forward to the creature huddled before the tree, she sees it is no ghost. Just a tiny, warped, ancient woman with long hair as white as her faded skin.

"The wolf with wings has flown to his roost," the old woman speaks, seemingly to the tree itself. "Will they let him fly again? Only he can say."

"You there!" Obara steps forward. "Who are you?"

"I?" The woman turns. Obara stifles a gasp at the sight of her wrinkled face and red eyes. "I am just a dreamer, looking for rest, blown far from her home to see the one sent to the trees. Like this poor dear," she turns back to the weirwood. "So much grief. So much suffering." She runs her hand along the scars, pulling back covered in a trace of sticky red sap. "Spring is coming. If we can make it."

* * *

**The Isle of Faces**

Ghost treads through the thick forest to the shore with Bran on his back, his face and arms still smeared with green. The days have been long since their arrival. The nights longer. Bran is rarely out of sight of the Children or Green Men. But now he finds Meera sitting alone, on the shore. He slips down from the direwolf to sit beside her. The sun has dispersed enough of the fog to reveal Harrenhal on the far shore.

"You ought to know everything," She does not look at him. "And yet still you think I desire your company."

"Did I offend you?"

"Offend me?" Meera almost laughs. "Can you truly see so little? I dragged you beyond the wall and back. My brother died for you. And three days after I return you to Winterfell, you sent me away! You didn't even say good-bye!"

"I was afraid," Bran whispers. "You saved my life time and again, but I was still afraid. I didn't know what I was. I became something more… less… not human. I couldn't bear to hurt you. So I pushed you away. But I see now. I know what I am. This is the final journey. And I can't do it without you."

"You don't even know what they want of you..." Her anger seems to turn to sadness.

"I do know what I want. And what I want for you."

"What you want doesn't matter." She turns away. "When tomorrow comes..."

"I don't care about tomorrow. Not now," Bran holds out his hand, cautiously. "I was wrong before. I will not make the same mistake twice."

Slowly, Meera takes his hand. He looks for forgiveness in her eyes, hoping that some of what he knows she felt for him might still be there… And then Howland marches out of the forest behind them.

"Run along, Meera," the Lord of the Neck bids. "I must speak to the Raven."

Bran begins to protest, but Meera silences him. She shakes her head, bows to her father, and disappears back into the shaded forest. Howland sits down beside Bran and dips his toes in the water, sending ripples across the dark surface.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks. Bran is unsure how to answer. He wants to shout that a great fount of love has torn him apart inside. But he cannot say he even knows what love feels like, for certain.

"Meera… I do not wish her to be angry with me."

"I know what that means," Howland smiles, the green paint on his cheeks cracking. "You Starks can never say what you feel. I remember the first girl who captured Ned's heart. He couldn't stop talking about her, but couldn't bear to say her name."

The memory of his father draws Bran in.

"My daughter is brave," Howland continues. "Fierce. And a beauty, in her own way. She may very well love you. But Meera and I both know what you must realize. You are above such things now. To love is human. You are beyond human."

"I am human. I am Bran Stark, of Winterfell," Bran insists.

"No. You are the Three-Eyed Raven. And it is long past time you learn what that means."

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

Jon nods in approval as Ser Symun Varner and the wildling Jarl walk out of the room, his final two champions. After a week of searching, now the trial is only a day away.

"I must say, I was surprised you picked none of my men," Strickland ponders. "Part of me thinks your grace still does not trust me."

"These ones will stand true," Jon insists. "Your men have other roles to play."

"Have you thought more on Lord Farman's offer?" Davos inquires.

"I am not fond of such treachery," Jon frowns. "But ensure that my champions are aware of whom they shall be facing. Any favors Farman wants, he ought ask them in public, not in secret."

"Wisely said, your grace," Davos agrees and exits. As the doors swing wide for his departure, Jon Bettley steps in.

"The Lady Stark awaits you," the Lord Commander reports. Jon frowns. That can only mean Sansa. He had avoided her since her arrival, fearing claims of favoritism. And fearing what she may ask of him. But he cannot hide forever.

He finds her in an open plaza, the cracked floor painted with a map of Westeros with Ser Rolland. The white-clad knight swiftly exits at his king's arrival.

"I had begun to think you'd forgotten me," Sansa turns as he approaches. They shuffle toward each other, sharing a hesitant, half-embrace.

"I could never forget you," he insists.

"Rolland brought me in, please don't blame him." She searches for words. "All the way here I've tried to think of what to tell you. What to ask. I know you've spoken to the northern lords. But not to me. You have spoken with Arianne. But not with me. Jon, you are the King in the North, but the North turns to me now for what you will do. And I do not know what to tell them."

"Jon." He backs away.

"What?"

"You called me Jon."

"That's your name…"

"My name is Aemon Targaryen," Jon's mood visibly darkens. "I am the king of all Westeros now. And you finally come here, not to comfort me as family, but to ask my favor, just like all the rest."

"No, Jon, no, your grace," Sansa trips over her tongue. "I don't want anything from you, I just want to talk!"

"Have you pledged fealty?"

Suddenly, Sansa realizes what he means. And what, perhaps, she had refused to admit she was asking for.

"You want me to bend the knee."

"I want you to do your duty."

"Jon, the North is finally free! Robb died for this! Mother died for this! So, so many men and women, our friends and subjects died so that we would never have to serve the Iron Throne again! I can't just throw that away! I didn't think you would…"

"I cannot treat the North any different because it is my home!" Jon points to the map at their feet. "There are seven kingdoms, and they are falling apart. I did not ask to rule, but this is my duty now! We must be united! And if you can't understand that, if you can't support me, then you might as well join Daenerys!"

For a long while, they stop in time, unmoving, unspeaking. Sansa looks at her feet and finds herself in the North. Jon has never seemed further away. It would be so easy, she thinks, to give in. To put an end to the struggle, give up her power and its burden. Let someone else rule. But no. That has been her whole life story. And now, thousands look to her.

"I'm not against you Jon. If you can't see that, I'm sorry. But I cannot be beneath you, either. You cannot bludgeon this world into neat little pieces with your honor. And the next time you wish to speak to the North, you will speak to me."

* * *

**Daenerys' Cell**

Damion Lannister watches his queen as she paces the floor. He has been permitted to speak with her regarding the champions. But thus far, she has not said a word. She looks colder, fiercer, stronger than when he last saw her. Hair is beginning to grow back on her shaved scalp. Finally, she speaks.

"Those will all do. But you choose one too many. I have already have a champion of my own selection."

Damion looks about, confused. _Who else could she have spoken to?_

"Euron Greyjoy will fight for me."

* * *

**Chataya's Brothel**

"Euron?!" Yara Greyjoy hurls a flagon of wine against the wall and it explodes, splattering sticky crimson over Robert Brax. Damion steps back, fearing for a moment the sea queen plans to attack him.

"I swear, I do not know why, but this is the queen's decree!" he insists as Yara tears apart her room to locate her cutlass.

"Does she realize what this means?"

"I told her that I imagined it would make things… difficult between the two of you."

"Difficult?" Yara points the cutlass straight down the center of Damion's face. He feels the point prick the tip of his nose. "I have half a mind to cut through the guards and kill them both myself!"

"Our queen hears the voice of R'Hllor," Eres insists. "If she has done this, it is the Lord's will."

Yara spins about, pointing the sword at the red warrior now.

"If Euron Greyjoy is a tool in your god's will, I want no part of it."

"You don't mean that," Eres insists, calmly. "All the waters of the sea are not enough to quench the fires of the Lord. You cannot challenge the chosen."

"I do challenge," Yara slowly stalks backwards out of the room. "And I will piss on your fires until they go out. Consider me Aemon's champion!"

* * *

**The Red Keep**

Yara has barely watched the path before her has her horse sprints recklessly through the streets, winding up towards the castle. Her mind has only been on two things – fury at her queen's betrayal and dreams of how she will kill Euron. At last she finds herself before the entrance to the Red Keep and brings her mount to a stop before two battle elephants and a wall of Golden Company men, led by Harry Strickland himself.

"What do you want, Greyjoy?" Strickland calls out. "Lord Lannister already spoke to Daenerys. She will have no more visitors today."

"I do not plan to speak to her!" Yara declares, leaping from the horse. "I will speak with King Aemon. Daenerys has lost my favor. I will be his champion."

"King Aemon already has six fine men to stand beside him."

"I promise you I could bury each of them in a heartbeat," Yara marches forward. "I want only a chance to slay my uncle."

"And place the king on trial with a sworn enemy at his side?" Strickland laughs as his guard begin to surround Yara. "Take her away to the cells. And do not trouble the king."


	39. The Isle of Faces Part 2

**The Isle of Faces**

Bran sits in a hollow atop a chair of tangled weirwood roots. Around him sits a circle of Children, some young, others old. Frost is there, and an ancient, hunch-backed male they call Willow. Bran's arms are entwined in the roots, his eyes covered with the blood red leaves.

He is everywhere. Nowhere. Anywhere.

The images come, one over the other, a cascade of time and space as Willow's creaking voice narrates the journey.

"Every people across the world has their stories. Every people has their legends. But you and us, we can see the truth of the stories. And this is the story of you, Raven, and the fire that would destroy this world."

Bran is in a forest now, greater and older than any other – a Westeros before man. Here only the Children and the giants walk.

"From the beginning of time, we lived at peace, in harmony with the woods and the mountains and the water. But men came. Where we saw perfection, they saw a world to conquer and bend to their own vision."

They reach Dorne, but an ancient Dorne, where a massive land bridge extends across into the narrow sea. A rabble of savage looking men come down from the crossing, weapons in hand. And with them comes the fire.

"We fought fiercely, and many sacrifices were made…" The land bridge splits and breaks apart, sinking into the sea and dragging screaming men down with it. "But the men were here to stay." They are in the circle, but here it is new, free of moss - the stones are new, freshly carved. Here the Children stand to meet with a rabble of wild looking men. Bran knows this story. "Peace returned for a time. But across the sea, another legend was being spun."

A new world forms now - great cities with towering stone fortresses and glittering jeweled idols.

"They called it the Empire of the Dawn. The greatest civilization known to man stretched its mighty hand across the known world. Rather, all that man had known. But they shall always desire more."

A great blood red comet comes crashing down out of the sky, landing in the heart of a great city. From the impact, a shadow arises – the darkness seems to choke Bran, and he turns away. But behind him stands a dark man, as if shaded by ash.

"The Bloodstone Emperor believed that the power beyond the shadow would lay the whole world at his feet, not just the lands known to man. He crossed the sea. It was a battle we could not win. And so we turned to a darker power of our own."

A cold comes over Bran as the sun is blotted out and the air turns to ice around him. A man with a burning sword strides across the frozen sea, and army of torches behind him. And opposing the fire is the Night King, with legions of wights and White Walkers.

"Stop!" Bran shouts. "You did this! You couldn't control what you created. You caused the Long Night!"

The images freeze around him and the Children appear. Willow strides towards him.

"Do you not yet understand? Sacrifices must be made. When the Night ended, the Empire of the Dawn was no more, the eternal flame retreated beyond the shadow once more and we locked away our creations." The Wall rises in a circle around them. "The First Men earned the favor of the gods, and were gifted the Three-Eyed Raven to defend the memory of this world. But as ever, peace did not last. The first men forgot their oaths and new men were to come, who wiped our people away. All that we sacrificed, only to be betrayed again. We could only watch as the land that belonged to us fell to the weak and small-minded with their steel."

Bran watches as the Wall melts away to show the arrival of the Andals, the First Men and finally Aegon the Conqueror. King's Landing rises, and at last a pale man in red stands atop its walls.

"Do you know him?" Willow asks.

"Bloodraven…" Bran recognizes his predecessor.

"Yes. He ruled for a time. Tried to bring order. But mankind fears what they cannot control. And so they drove him away."

Bran watches as Bloodraven flees beyond the Wall, beneath the great weirwood, and slowly ages to the man who was the last Raven. Who opened his own third eye.

"Bloodraven learned what we already had. To hide and to wait. To preserve ourselves. Let humans drag each other down in the muck. We are something different. We must survive. But now the champion of the light and shadow has stirred again. And, like a child, you lashed out in fear. We were left without a champion."

Bran watches as Arya strikes down the Night King, and feels anger begin to boil over.

"That's not right! The Night King would have killed everyone!"

Willow stares at him, unblinking. "Do you not understand? Sacrifices must be made. We thought Jon Snow would be our new champion. But he abandoned his destiny."

"No!" Bran kicks at the spectral Children around him, wishing for the visions to end. "Jon didn't betray anyone. He's a hero!"

"Then why is his direwolf here, with you, while he flies through the skies on a dragon?"

"You were going to kill everyone just to defend yourselves!" Bran shouts.

"Silence your emotions, Raven!" Willow shouts. "You are above such things!" But Bran's anger only grows. And with it, he grows as well. Or do the Children shrink? He is towering in the void now, as all the dreadful horrors flash by – every bloody sacrifice, burning, drowning, White Walkers, a whirlwind of pain and grief.

"Enough!" Willow commands and everything else fades to black. "You speak with the voice of Brandon Stark. That boy is dead. You are the Three-Eyed Raven. And it is your destiny to restore the proper order to this world. Our kind will rule once again. No matter the cost."

For a moment, Bran is lost in time. But then he steels his resolve. He reaches out in his mind. He can feel them, all of the trees, all of the memories, all of the feelings. He reaches out until he can feel the minds of the Children encircling him. And he opens his eye.

"Not today."

There is a blinding flash of blue light and Bran is back among the weirwood roots, the Children holding their heads in pain.

"My family is in danger. I will go to them."

* * *

**Arianne's Quarters**

As dusk falls the evening before the trial, Arianne watches Elia train in the yard. Elia Martell, now, she smiles proudly at the thought. She thinks of the Starks, and hopes that Arya may yet come to train with her heir. She hears noise from the entrance. Garin has returned, exhausted from a long day tending to the sick, trying to master his Rhoynish water spells. He is too tired even for Sarella's flirtations. Seeing him trudge off to his chambers makes Arianne realize how tired she is herself. But as she walks back to her room, she finds a figure blocking her way.

Ellaria Sand.

"Who let you in?" Arianne demands, looking for her guards.

"Elia did," Ellaria steps forward into the light. Seeing her now, like this, Arianne finds it hard to hate. She had thought the woman dead, and it looks as if she had been right – eyes sunken, hair thin and patchy, skin stuck tight to her bones, Ellaria appears as if a walking corpse. "I only wanted to thank you. For my daughter."

"I honored my uncle when I made Elia my heir. And my aunt, whom she was named for. I warned you what would happen if you returned."

"If I returned to Dorne," Ellaria sighs, wearily. "This is not Dorne. But kill me if you must. I have already lost so much, my life is little left to give." She turns and begins to walk aimlessly away. "I have had an eternity of grief to think of the past, and have watched my vengeance slip away through my fingers like sand. I am left with nothing. This hate destroyed me, as it doomed Oberyn. I will be with him shortly. Raise her better than we could, please."

"Ellaria…" Arianne goes after her, and she turns.

"Live for the day, princess," Ellaria's dry, bony hands clutch at Arianne's soft arm. "You are not your father, nor your uncle, nor me. You are who you wish to be. Look to tomorrow, and seize it for yourself."

With that, Ellaria disappears, down the stairs and into the night, with a final glance back at her daughter in the yard. Arianne watches her go. In that moment, and knows what she must do.

* * *

**Stark Quarters**

Sansa had barely touched her dinner. She has found little appetite since her fight with Jon. Neither wine nor Mycah's comforting words have done little to lift the tension. At least Sam's spirits were raised by the news of his wife's safe arrival at Blackhaven, en route to the capital. As he and Mycah swap stories of adventures, Sansa slips away to her sister's room. Arya had not joined them for dinner. And as she enters, she sees why.

Arya sits, her sheets and mattress slashed, _Needle_ stabbed down into the bed.

"Get out," she grumbles, without looking up.

"Arya," Sansa does not leave. Instead, she crosses to sit beside her sister. "I know that things have not always been well between us. We were apart for so long. Someday, perhaps, we can share everything that happened. But until then, we're still sisters. We should be able to talk. Do you want some wine?"

"You know I hate wine," Arya looks up, with the faintest smile. "Gendry did, too."

"Well, Gendry is a fool, clearly," Sansa japes, but that does not help. "I'm sorry."

"He's right. He took an oath to Daenerys. I never should have asked him to betray it."

"It's not wrong for you to want him to support Aemon. He was our brother."

"Aemon..." Arya stiffens. "Why did you call him that?"

"That's his name, after all. His true name."

"Oh, gods," Sansa's composure finally collapses. She pulls at the weirwood pendant on her neck. "What if it's all wrong? What if we're all wrong? Half the North goes to him for answers he will not give them, the other half come to me for answers I do not know. He cannot be King of the North and King of Westeros at the same time. But if he sits the Iron Throne, and the North is free, what does that make me?"

"I think you have to decide that for yourself." Arya leans her arm out over Sansa's shoulder. Comfort is a stranger to her. But she has to try.

"If the North wants to be free, then is it not right for me to stand up for them? But what if Jon's right, and that hurts his own position."

"What if no one's right?" Arya asks. "I think, maybe, that is how it is. The right is in little pieces, broken, and each of us has a little. We just have to find a way to piece it all back together."

"But how?" Sansa runs her hands desperately through her hair. "It hurts! This all hurts so much."

"Syrio used to say every hurt is a lesson. And every lesson makes you better."

"Who's Syrio?"

"My dancing instructor," Arya laughs at the memory.

"I think that is something you will have to tell me one day," Sansa smiles. "But everything is so wrong. Jon is angry with me. And Arianne."

"Then find a way," Arya hugs her, sincerely this time. "Give them your truth and listen to theirs. And I... I'll listen to Gendry's. And then maybe we can all see what to do..."

* * *

**Arianne's Quarters**

The guards at the gate are Manwoody men, Sansa can tell, from the white skulls painted on their faces. But they know her, and usher her inside. Elia is still in the yard, taking aim with a bow as Sarella instructs her. The younger girl's skill with the bow is clearly not to par with her lance and spear, as a stray arrow flies far from the target to land at Sansa's feet.

"Ah, careful now, Elia, the lady wolf approaches," Sarella looks up. "You must hold your arm steady, like this." Taking the bow into her own hands, she quickly pulls back and looses an arrow into the wooden target without looking. Elia gasps. Sansa, feeling uncomfortable with her intrusion, slowly applauds.

"How do you do that?" Elia asks.

"Practice. Years of practice. When you're trapped in the Citadel with your bosoms wrapped tight, you can only read so much. This was my ecstasy." Sarella looses the rest of the arrows in sequence. "Now get yourself to bed, Lady Martell. You need rest for tomorrow." Elia sneers her nose at the formality, but listens nonetheless.

Finally Sansa approaches, and Sarella takes a long drink of wine. She passes the bottle to Sansa, who partakes gladly, and begins to set up a far-eye to examine the stars.

"What brings you here at this hour?" she asks as she works. "No one is left awake but me and the heavens. Just how I like it."

"I must speak to Arianne," Sansa looks about. "Do you suppose you might check on her?"

"Oh…" Sarella nervously scratches the back of her head, looking to the stars as if to ask them for a suitable answer. "The princess isn't exactly here…"

* * *

**Maegor's Holdfast**

Jon nearly falls down from Rhaegal's back as he returns, the city at last at sleep. And he knows he must sleep, too, so little of it has he seen this past week. He must restore his energy, to face the moment he has been dreading for so long. But it is hard to sleep angry. And today most of all, Jon is as angry as he is tired. Everything is falling apart. The lords cannot stop bickering. His own home and family will not heed his will. If he cannot control the North, how can he control all seven kingdoms? And tomorrow he must fight the woman he loves to the death.

_It does not have to be to death. But it will. She'll never yield._

He screams in agony and fury, unleashing his energy on the nearest wall, punching with his fist until his knuckles bleed. As he stumbles towards his bedchamber, he knows something is wrong. The torches are lit. His hand flits to _Blackfyre_ at his side. He steps slowly around the corner into the room.

A lone figure stands, hooded, in a black robe. Jon steps swiftly, in, drawing his sword. The figure turns, gasping, and throws down their hood. He sees the silver mask first.

"Your grace!" Arianne calls out.

_Blackfyre_ clatters to the floor.

"How did you get here?" Jon yells, outraged. He storms forward, but she does not run. Grabbing her wrists, he begins to shake her violently, back and forth. "The passage, where is it? Who else knows?"

As they struggle, her arms twist in his hands and she grasps hold of his head. He stills as she pulls their faces together into a kiss. The cold metal of the mask stings his face. But she smells of elderberries, sweet pepper, winter roses and warmth. Jon pulls himself away and her robe falls open. There is nothing underneath the velvet. Only smooth, soft olive skin.

"You need to go," Jon insists.

_I do not want this, _he tells himself as she backs sensually away, the robe fully slipping off her onto the ground now.

"The gods showed me how to find you," she whispers as she begins to extinguish the candelabras one by one. "I was lead here for you. You must not deny what you desire, Aemon. You are a king. A king should have what he wants. What he needs. Tell me you do not want me, and I will go."

There is only one light left, beside the bed. Jon stands stiffly in its glow, wanting to command her to be gone but unable to look away. She prowls, naked, closer towards him, full hips swaying with each step. Jon tries to remain stoic, but his manhood betrays him. She looks down at his breeches and extinguishes the final candle. Only then does he hear the mask fall to the floor.

"Take off your clothes," she states plainly. He does not move. But she is in control now. Her nimble hands go to swift work at his buttons and laces. As he stands still, he remembers Daenerys, and Ygrytte before her. Every love he has found has been a betrayal. But he is tired. He wants this. Her. Anyone, Anything to make him forget it all.

Nothing between them now, he feels her warmth as she pulls him into her.

_Forgive me. I just want to forget._

* * *

**Duck's Bed**

There are no windows in the small chamber the serjeant of the Golden Company had claimed for himself. But years of strict military regimen wake Rolly Duckfield early in the morning all the same. His head aching, he finds Wynafryd Manderly sprawled atop of him, her heavy breasts atop his chest and long yellow hair ensnares his face. As he opens his mouth to yawn, he chokes on golden strands, startling the young woman awake.

As she yawns and stretches, he tries to rise, but she straddles him still.

"So soon to leave me for the king after what you told me last night?"

"What… what did I say?" Rolly's face reddens with panic, racking his brain to remember what he had done. Seeing the flagons and bottles lying amongst their clothes on the floor, he knows he will not remember. Seeing this, Wynafryd grins triumphantly to herself and reaches beneath the sheets to grab hold of his member.

"Only that you wanted me all to yourself. That you wished my poor betrothed would have championed King Aemon and fallen in the trial. A truly terrible thing to say."

"Oh," he gasps at her touch, leaning up to kiss her neck, breathing lustily. "I have certainly dishonored myself. How shall I recover?"

"Like this" she whispers, pulling tighter.

"Then I have so much dishonor yet to give. You truly bring out the worst in me."

"Oh, I know," Wynafryd smiles, her mind already laying plans. "I know."

* * *

**The Maidenvault**

The hostages are already waiting when the knock comes at the door.

"Are they going to free us?" Nigel Tudburry asks.

"No, you daft boy," Tybolt Crakehall sighs, biting into a half-rotted apple. "Today's the day of the trial."

"I've always wanted to see a Trial of Seven!" Nigel nearly jumps out of his chair.

"No good ever comes of such things," hunchbacked Hotho Harlaw sighs. "Do they not teach young lads their histories on the mainland these days?" Hotho swings open the door to reveal Rolly Duckfield and a half dozen fellow Golden Men.

"Please don't cause any trouble," Rolly grimaces as another wave of pain rakes his skull.

"Just bind out chains loose, we aren't going anywhere," Tybolt holds up his wrists to be tied, but the exuberant Nigel must be corralled.

"Don't tie too tight!" the squire shouts. "You'll need to free us quick once it's over! My Lady Mya will crush Aemon's chest with her hammer like her father crushed Rhaegar at the trident! And then my Lord Gendry will be coming for me!"

"Hush now, ye daft boy," Hotho grumbles. "Best not be singing for the death of the man keepin' us in chains. Who knows what the day will bring?"

* * *

**The Black Cells**

Arya follows close behind as men of the Golden Company meet the watchmen guarding the cells to escort Daenerys and Euron to the Dragonpit. She watches as the former queen and king are marched from their cells. Neither resist, but as she turns to follow them, she notices a cluster of watchmen headed in the other direction, escorting another prisoner – a stout black-skinned old man with braided white hair in dirty crimson robes.

Curious, she slinks along behind them, staying in the dark, close to the wall.

_Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow._

There is someone shouting, further ahead, from within one of the cells. Finally, she sees the door shaking. Through the grated window, she can see Yara Greyjoy's frantic face. She stops.

"You! Stark girl!" Yara hisses.

"What do you want?" Arya glances back and forth between the prisoner and the guards as they vanish around a distant corner.

"Those men! They are not the king's men! I know them!"

"What do you mean?"

"The Codd brothers! They're draped in gold cloaks but I know their stench. They're Euron's men, and they've taken his priest!"

Arya does not waste another moment. She leaves Yara behind in her cell, racing headlong down the hall. Silence can wait for now. She can only pray to find the men again.

* * *

**Streets of King's Landing**

Brienne rides ahead of the Stark carriage as it trundles through the streets, struggling to clear a path. The shattered city, home to only ghosts just days before, is overflowing with life again. It seems as if every man, woman and child within a week's travel has flocked to see the Trial of Seven.

_A grim spectacle_, Sansa grimaces as the cart hits a bump. Mycah places a hand on her shoulder to steady her as the broken road grows worse. _This death is a sport to them._

Tyrion rides with them, along with Lord Glover, Lord Stout and other northerners. Tyranna Stane on her fearsome unicorn ride up alongside them with several of her men, then on to Brienne. At the sight of those beasts, the crowds quickly part.

_Jon has his dragon, the Golden Company their elephants, and I have my unicorns_, she thinks. _Perhaps men will come to fear me after all._

She looks to Tyrion at her side and can see the pain in his eyes. She misses the sound of his voice.

"You didn't have to come," she tells him.

He scrawls away at the slate around his neck: _I brought her here. I failed her. This at least, I owe her._

* * *

**The Dragonpit**

Within the pit itself, Jon is fitted with his armor by Davos and a crowd of squires he does not know. Strickland had it made for him – shining black plate, embellished with red and a dragon's helm with ruby eyes to match those in the hilt of _Blackfyre_. He can see his Kingsguard waiting in their glistening white armor and capes, Ser Steffon and Jarl with them. But as the squires clasp his crimson cape and leave, he freezes.

"I can't do it." He can barely speak.

"You must," Davos insists. "You once told me that your father taught that the man who casts the sentence must swing the sword. Those were wise words."

"He wasn't my father," Jon muses, distantly.

"Not by blood, your grace," Davos admits. "But he raised you. And if you're to keep this peace, I'd advise you to act more like Ned Stark than Rhaegar Targaryen."

"Thank you, Davos," Jon places a grateful hand on the old smuggler's shoulder. "You have always spoke true and plain. You're a good man, ser." With that, he slowly walks out into the makeshift arena. Davos watches him go and mourns. His king had not said good-bye. But it feels as if this will be the last moment he shall see him.

Jon steps out into the cold sun, red cape flowing behind him. It pulls at his back, an unnecessary flourish. As he approaches his champions he loosens the clasps on his shoulders and the heavy red fabric falls limply to the ground.

"Your grace," Jon Bettley kneels, along with the other Kingsguard.

"That is not nessecary, Lord Commander," Jon bids him rise. "You fight by my side today, not at my feet." Together, they turn to face their foes as Daenerys and her champions enter.

Her guard – Ser Merlon, Kimbo, Black Spot and Ser Osgood - in their black and red armor. Mya Baratheon in light grey plate and black-and-yellow surcoat, warhammer in hand. Euron in simple sailor's garb, a queer horn strapped to his side. And Daenerys in her own armor– crimson red, embossed with flames, with a matching helm. Jon looks back, nervously. He should have his own helm, he thinks. But it is too late.

"I call the Dothraki," Ser Rolland grips his axe in anticipation as Lord Harlan Dondarrion rises, bringing order to the crowd.

At his command, the opposing champions stride to the center of the pit, lining face to face. They have found a septon somewhere, and now he says a prayer alongside pious Bonifer Hasty. Daenerys stands defiantly before Jon, halberd in hand. This is the closest they have stood since the devastation, nary a foot apart.

_She smells the same_, Jon thinks. _She is the same. What have I done?_

"I see you've brought our ancestor's sword to slay me," she looks to his side. "Is that all it takes to make you think you can rule these people by yourself?" Jon has no answer, his brain slowing to a crawl. She leans closer. "It's not too late," she whispers in his ear. "We still can make this right. We can still build a new world."

"You killed that world when you burned this city to the ground."

"No." Her halberd shifts the slightest beat closer towards Jon's face. "You killed it when you could not accept what had to be done to bring peace. When you threw me in chains and stole my dragon. When you conspired with Lord Farman to betray my allies. And when you abandoned my love for her." She raises the halberd, pointing it to where Arianne sits in the crowd. "You've stumbled Jon. But you can still do the right thing. You know it's true. All this has to be burned away for the world to be free."

Jon steps back and turns to the dais. The world is a blur around him, sound a vacuum, his heart pounds as if trying to escape his chest. He wants to yell. _I can stop this. Can I? _But if any noise comes out, no one hears. Lord Dondarrion says something. And then the battle has begun.

The sound of clashing steel must surely be loud, Jon thinks. But all he can hear is the rushing of his blood, roaring in his ears. And then Daenerys is rushing towards him. He should move. Or parry. But he does neither. The point of her halberd takes him in the shoulder and knocks him to the ground. As he hits the earth, he finally manages to draw _Blackfyre_. He blocks the next strike and rolls away, struggling to his feet.

Blood has already been spilled. Mya's hammer has crushed Jarl's chest and Rolland's axe cleaved Kimbo's skull. But then Daenerys is on him again, swinging the razor-sharp halberd. He dodges, trying to counter with his greatsword. But Daenerys has more range. He cannot reach. The sympathy is gone from her eyes now, and he is fighting for his life. Rolland and Bettley see the threat and move to his aid. But the distraction opens them to attack. Euron presses the advantage, his cutlass burying deep in Bettley's side.

As the Lord Commander falls, Euron lets the cutlass fall away and reaches to the horn at his side. Jon stops to watch as Daenerys turns to block Rolland's attack. In the midst of the fight, Euron raises the horn to his lips and blows. A burst of fire sparks from his obsidian eye. And then Rhaegal roars.

* * *

**The Silence**

Arya creeps below the deck of the haunting black ship, hearing the echoing footsteps of the men on the decks above her. Daenerys' guard, Eres, had been waiting here for the red priest's arrival, and now they were unmooring the ship. That seemed wrong. They should be with their masters. Or were they abandoning them to die?

Hearing a creak behind her, she ducks behind a crate, lying in wait. Whoever is falling her is doing well to mask their footsteps. But not well enough for her. Silently, she draws _Needle_. As the figure nears, she rises and pins him to the wall, _Needle_ at his neck, in an instant. In the dark, she recognized gold cloth and blue hair. Grif.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses.

"Following you," he hisses back. "What are you doing here?"

"Euron's men are in the City Watch," she cautiously lets the squire go.

"Are they planning an escape before the trial?"

"No. At least I don't think so. They brought his priest to the ship."

"Then what are they doing?" Grif reaches to draw his own dagger. And then the boat shifts forward violently. "We're moving. Why are we moving?"

* * *

**The Dragonpit**

When the dragon turned, all madness broke out. The great green beast had waited where Jon left it, beyond the pit. But at the dark, ancient sound of the Valyrian horn, it had risen, and the fire began to rain down as it descended into the pit.

"Rhaegal, no!" Jon shouts as it lands. Caught off guard, Ser Cregan and Ser Steffon are consumed in the flames, Black Spot along with them. Mya takes one look at the dragon and flees to the stands. Euron flashes a smile, horn in hand, and climbs atop its back. Jon rushes towards them, but feels the halberd slice the back of his leg. He falls forward, dropping _Blackfyre_, and Daenerys stabs down, barely missing.

With a roar, Rolland strikes a heavy blow. Daenerys staggers, armor dented but not pierced. She spins her staff and strikes at the knight's knee before turning back to Jon. He crawls through the dirt towards his sword, but she kicks at his head. Blood comes into his eyes and he rolls over. Rolland catches up, and Daenerys blocks his attacks, his heavy axe knocking back her lighter weapon on each blow.

Finally, Jon feels his fingers on the hilt of _Blackfyre_. He rises just as Daenerys ducks below a swing and looks up as Daenerys stabs upward, landing a deadly blow.

"No!" Jon shouts as Rolland hits the ground. He rises dizzily, sword in hand but the blood rushes to his head. He stumbles and Daenerys swings her blade, the dull end striking the back of his head. He topples back down, landing besides Rolland's body. Daenerys turns and runs to the dragon. It is the last thing Jon sees before his eyes go black.

In the stands, Damion Lannister looks about at the chaos as knights and soldiers in the crowd begin to turn on each other, devolving into a mob of violence.

"What in the seven hells is happening?" he roars at Gendry. "Did you know about this?"

"No!" Gendry shouts. The young lord turns and runs to his sister. Damion searches the crowd for answers, but all his allies are fleeing or raising arms. Lord Farman lies on the ground dead, his throat slashed open. Who killed him, Damion cannot say, but Forley Prestor is rushing the dragon, his sword ablaze.

"Damn it!" he shouts as things spiral out of control. He had planned things so perfectly, followed his orders, and now… madness. "Robert, my sword!" He yells, finding his squire. Robert Brax stares aimlessly out from behind his scarred face. "My sword, boy!" He stomps forward to grab it himself. But at last the boy draws it. And stabs.

The Valyrian blade passes between the break in his plate. Damion gasps as Robert twists the sword. And at last, his squire speaks.

"For my father."

In a moment, the boy is gone, and Damion is left staring down at the sword in his stomach - that damned false-Brightroar, stolen so long ago to boost his cousin's pride. The lion on its pommel taunts him, as if it is Tywin Lannister himself, laughing from beyond the grave. As the blood seeps out, he topples forward, down from the stands. His face lands in dust and ash. In the end, there is nothing else.

* * *

**Outside the Dragonpit**

The Horpe knights form a vanguard around Harlan Dondarrion as he rushes away from the chaos – a deadly circle of steel and tattered white robes. Tywin and Wynafryd cower behind Edric Dayne, who has drawn the great blade _Dawn_. Harlan turns to his fellow judge, Lord Franklyn Fowler.

"Where is Ser Bonifer?"

"Dead, ser! Dragonfire!"

"Seven hells," Harlan shakes his head. How could happen?

"My lord!" Meraxes Horpe steps to his side. "Ahead of us, it's the Starks. They look to be in trouble."

For only a moment, Harlan hesitates, his own cart in the opposite direction. He wishes he had brought a weapon for himself. But Tywin is making no use of his. "Give me your sword, boy!" he commands his son. Tywin eagerly abliges, and Harlan runs back to his commander. "Go to them."

Sansa and Tyrion are surrounded, Dothraki, Unsullied, Ironborn, even random looters run rampant about them. Brienne, Mycah and Lord Glover fend off attackers from every side. A roar makes Sansa look up to the shy to see the dragon in flight. But her heart drops when she sees Jon is not astride it.

Mycah hurls his trident into the chest of a charging Dothraki stallion. Rushing to the dead horse, he retrieves his weapon to finish off the rider. Looking up past him, Sansa sees Sandor Clegane cutting his way through the crowd to their group.

"Where's Arya?" he barks as he reaches her.

"She wasn't with us!"

"Do you have a way out?" he asks. Sansa shakes her head. He points behind her, and she sees a crowd of knights in white robes rushing towards them. They part to reveal Harlan Dondarrion, who lashes out with his own sword at a rock-throwing rioter.

"Come with us!" the lord barks. Sansa and Tyrion rush in, with the others joining the Horpe vanguard. They press on through the panicked streets until reaching a dead halt. Before them, blocking their path, is an Unsullied shield wall.

"Madness…" Harlan grumbles.

"We can take them!" Edric tries to rush forward, _Dawn_ in his hands, but Meraxes pushes him back, her cold eyes flitting between her fellow Horpes and the guards in their path, clearly trying to devise a plan. But she never gets the chance.

"Clear the way!" Tyranna Stane calls from behind as she and two other Skagosi storm through on their unicorns. One of the fearsome hairy beasts is impaled on the Unsullied spears, but the other two break the wall. Seizing the opening, the Horpes usher their charges through the gap on into the city, on to safety… they can only pray it waits for them somewhere..

* * *

**The Silence**

The gilded kraken cuts swiftly through the waves as the great black ship cuts across the ocean. Moqorro stands at the bow, arms outstretched, beseeching his god for speed. Eres stands at the rear, waiting for a sign from shore. Grif and Arya watch from behind a crate.

"We should kill them," Arya whispers.

"We should find a way off this damned boat," Grif shakes his head. "If the bloody red priests want to steal a ship and sail to the ends of the world, let them."

"I don't think they're stealing the ship…" Arya rises and points behind them. Racing out above the city and out over the bay they can see Rhaegal.

"What's the king doing?" Grif asks as the dragon draws nearer.

"That's not the king," Arya murmurs under her breath. The boat lurches upwards as Rhaegal comes crashing down to land upon the deck with five figure on its back. Euron is the first off, followed by Daenerys, Ser Merlon, Ser Osgood and Forley Prestor.

"My queen," Eres bows. "The Lord has been true."

The Codd brothers, still in their stolen City Watch, attend to Euron.

"Good work, m'boys," he laughs. "You should've seen the look on those pompous cocks' faces when their precious dragon turned on 'em." He raises the horn in the air, his eye still smoldering. "I like this!"

"You're right," Arya turns to Grif. "You need to get off the boat."

"Wait!" he protests for a moment, but Arya is too fast and shoves him back over the edge and into the water below. She has disappeared into the shadows again before he hits the water. The Silence cuts on, quickly leaving the floundering squire fighting a losing battle against the waves. As if hearing a cry for help, Rhaegal launches back into the air as the others are looking away, throwing them to the ground as his wings take flight once more.

Furious, Euron raises the horn back to his lips, but Eres pulls it away.

"Let the little green beast fly back to its master. Where we're going, we will have no need of such children."

* * *

**The Docks**

When Jon woke, the arena was almost empty. Ser Myles Manwoody, his last surviving guardian, was dragging him across the sand to safety. But he had refused to hide. And so Ser Myles seized a horse from a dead Dothraki and held his king on the mount following the dragon's path all the way to the docks. But it was too late. And he has set, bleeding onto the cobblestone at the edge of the bay ever since. For how long, he cannot say.

"Your grace," Myles finally speaks. "I must return you to the keep. You need a maseter's attention for your wounds."

Jon does not answer. Instead he peers back over the horizon. A shape has reappeared. A shape that can only be one thing. Rhaegal is coming home. He tries to stand, but cannot. Myles comes to his side and lifts him to his feet.

_It's her,_ he thinks. _She's come back for me. _

But there is no rider on the dragon's back, only a figure wrapped limply in its talons. Rhaegal comes to a majestic landing, dropping a wet body that Jon ignores, hobbling to his dragon's side. He collapses onto Rhaegal's side, feeling the warmth and the scales.

"Thank you," he whispers as he collapses again. But now he finally looks back to see what the dragon had pulled from the sea. Kneeled over, gagging up salt water, Grif looks up to lock eyes with Jon. The water has soaked his hair, the blue dye running down his face. And it leaves behind a long, blue-stained white-blonde hair. Jon knows that hair. On Daenerys. And on the ghost of Rhaegar that has haunted his dreams.

_Who are you?_

Jon might have said it. He might have only thought it. But behind him in the city, he hears the trumpets of the Golden Company, riding out into the riots to restore order. And then the blackness comes again.

* * *

**The Isle of Faces**

In the dead of night, Ghost stalks fiercely through the trees with Bran on his back. After the incident, the Children had given him a wide berth. He had heard them talk amongst themselves and the Green Men. Some wanted to kill him. But he was the only of his kind, so most advocated means of binding him to their will. Either way, Bran knew it was time to leave.

The images haunt him as he rides. The stories he had loved as a boy, marred with blood and screams. The heroes who had led him so far, who he thought had given him his power, now seemed as monsters. And, above it all, there lies the great fear that he is wrong. That he has failed. Who is he to question the Children of the Forest? As the moon sparkling on the lake appears before them, tears come.

And then he sees the Green Men waiting for him.

"This is your home now, Raven," Howland Reed stands broadly in his path. "This island is your throne. And from here we will defend Westeros. And when the ashes fall, Westeros will once again be ruled by its true power."

"And how many lives must be sacrificed this time, Lord Reed?" Bran asks. "I will not hide away and let men suffer to keep myself safe."

"You could die! You are our last hope!"

"Then I will die with my people. I may be their hope. But their vision is a false dream. I have a different dream. And I will not be a slave to yours."

The men march closer. Theon draws his sword.

"Meera!" Howland barks. "Return him."

But Meera buries her frogspear at her father's feet.

"Bran is right. You told me the Raven was to defend humanity. You told me the children wanted to defend humanity. That's what I choose."

Furious, Howland lunges forward. But Ghost is quicker, biting down hard on the crannogman's arm and tossing him aside. In terror, the other guards back aside. Ghost strides on towards the boat, with Meera and Theon following.

"You're making a mistake," Howland gasps. "You'll all die!" But they walk on.

As they reach the water's edge, Bran takes a final look back, wiping the tears from his eyes. The moon seems to dance on the treetops. The time has come to make the choice.

"Let's go," he declares. "It is time to fly."


	40. The Hour of the Wolf

**Harrenhal**

The haunted towers disappear into the chilling late night fog. There are no stars to see tonight, nor a moon to offer light only a torch planted on the shore beside Obara Sand and the little pale dwarf woman. They wait until at last movement can be seen in the mist over the lake. Obara rises, feet splashing into the cold water to take a closer look. Sure enough, the boat emerges, and she sees the familiar white direwolf looming in the back. Bran has returned. The small woman claps and chortles with glee as the boat runs aground. Ghost leaps to safety and Obara moves to help Meera and Theon lift Bran to shore.

"What happened?" she asks.

"I have no idea," Theon shrugs as he hoists Bran atop his direwolf. The prince's eyes fall upon the dwarf.

"You, the Ghost of High Heart, they call you," he gestures to her, and she waddles eagerly nearer, her long white hair tangling in the reeds. "Theon, we have a gift for her." He points to the sack, and Theon retrieves a weirwood pod and hands it to the witch. "May the gods protect you, dear one. Breathe life back into High Heart."

"You bless a humble witch like me," she bows, the pod disappearing into her pale robes. "The wolf with wings shall now fly free on the wind, but I have dreamed that freedom comes at a cost. I fear you have not yet drank your fill of grief, child."

A darker chill washes over Obara. She looks to Bran, and finds him looking as if a boy, not a prince. But the moment passes.

"Obara, wake the children," he commands. "We must make haste to travel."

Without question, Obara turns to run back into the castle. But as she leaves, she takes another look back at the sound of the old woman's voice.

"My song, your grace… May I have my song?"

"What song?" Theon is confused.

"Why, my only song, of course!" she tugs on Ghost's fur. "Of Oldstones… Of my Jenny…"

And so Bran begins to sing, a weak voice, but sweet in its own way, echoing into the chill night that now seems a little clearer.

"High in the halls of the kings that are gone…"

* * *

**Maegor's Holdfast**

Slowly the light returns and the world blurs into focus as Jon's eyes open. He rises, painfully, to take in his surroundings. His chest, legs and head are wrapped heavily in bandages. Two men in maester's robes huddle in the corner. Guards in gilded armor stand at each entrance.

"Your grace, you ought not yet move in your condition!" one of the maesters rushes to the bedside, but Jon will have none of it.

Grunting, he swings his legs over the side of the bed. A shock runs through him as bare feet hit the cold stone. He hears clattering footsteps approaching. Turning, he finds Harry Strikland has arrived, with Rolly Duckfield, Black Balaq and Grif close behind. The squire has dyed his hair blue once more, Jon notes.

"Your grace, the maesters said you were stirring," Strickland says. "I came as soon as I heard. How are you feeling?"

"How long…" Jon rubs his aching head.

"Five days, your grace," the maester bows. "You were grievously injured."

"My men have returned some manner of order to the city," Strickland reports. "The Baratheons are in the Black Cells. The Unsullied take no action without a leader. But it is the Dothraki who are of greatest concern. Many bands have left the city to raid the countryside."

"Then they must be dealt with," Jon rises, hesitantly. "Not by you. By the king."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Rolly is clearly doubtful of Jon's ability to walk, much less do battle.

"I will have need of my armor," Jon beckons the others away and pulls Strickland close. "You brought all these men through the passages, did you not?"

"Y…y…yes, your grace," the commander stammers, reverting to his supplicatory old self. "You needed attendants, and I believed this was the safest place."

"Then tell them I am healed," Jon releases Strickland, who stumbles backwards onto the bed. "And when they are gone, seal the passages. This is my keep. I shall have no more unexpected guests."

"Of course. And, um, Princess Arianne requested a… private audience."

"No!" Jon jabs his finger back at Strickland. "Not her. Especially not her."

* * *

**Arianne's Quarters**

"I'm sorry, my lady, but the king will not see you," Ser Myles Manwoody reports, standing in the yard in his white Kingsguard armor, still dented from the trial.

Arianne pries further. "Not now, or…"

"I do not believe that his grace intends to keep your company ever again," Myles nods, knowingly. "I am sorry."

"Of course," Arianne struggles to not expose her consternation. She notes that Myles now carries Rolland Storm's axe. "And you have my condolences for your fallen brothers. Rolland served me long and well. May he find his place by The Warrior's side."

"Indeed," Myles bows, "and may the Crone guide you wisely, princess." A single tear cutting through the cracked white paint of the skull on his face. Arianne remembered the knight of Kingsgrave had once been a lover to her uncle, and suspected he had found similar companionship with Rolland.

She watches silently as the knight disappears from the yard. Once it is clear he is gone, she turns and her anger boils over. Toppling tables and shattering flagons, Arianne releases years of pent up frustration. She seizes a spear and rams it deep into the heart of Elia's training target.

_Close,_ she thinks, _so damned close to the throne and_ _I've lost to a ghost. But he will be the one to lose in the end. His duty robbed him of her, now his shame denies him me. But I have no such fears. Let him try to take Dorne, as his ancestors did. He will fail all the same. And rot upon his pointed chair, mourning for his damned mother of dragons._

* * *

**The Silence**

The feared ship of Euron Greyjoy stays true to its name as it cuts swiftly across the stormy waters of the Narrow Sea. But the storm does not bother Daenerys Targaryen. Nor, it seems, has it disturbed the vessel's captain, perched at the bow, as a furious wind throws salt and brine into his face.

Daenerys watches Euron from afar. She had seen him first as shadows in her visions, to see him in the flesh was something still new. He was handsome, even with the ugly burns around his obsidian eye, melted down from a glass candle by his priest's magic. But there was a dark aura about him, the cold spirit of death. It pulsed in his veins and permeated the boards of this ship. Whatever the Lord of Light had planned for him, she hoped it did not require she long keep his company.

She had not sought the flames for answers since her flight from the city. Eres and Moqorro would serve to deliver guidance from Rh'llor. She did not like the feel of the flames. It was power, but not her own. And she would not lose control. This was her destiny. And if this red god and its prophecies aligned with her own vision, then she would not turn away the power to free the world.

It did trouble her still, in the latest hours of night, that her vision all this time were not her own. That perhaps her every step had been planned for her by powers beyond her reach. But she shunted those dreams away, along with the dreams of Jon. Those doubts were of her old self. The Iron Throne had been a stumbling block, she saw that now. A shackle of the old order. But now a new order was beginning, one of her own making. She was Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, the Breaker of Chains, the Lightbringer, Azor Ahai. And she was going home.

* * *

**Highgarden**

Missandei rides alongside Ser Argilac Horpe in his Kingsguard armor. They pass swiftly down the road leading to Highgarden. From a distance, Missandei admires the great, white-walled fortress rising high above the plains. Even in the dead of winter, it is still a place of beauty. As they draw nearer, a pack of riders comes to meet them, led by Ser Bronn. After calming Argilac's suspicions, he falls in line beside Missandei for the ride back to the castle. The first gate opens swiftly. As they wind through the hedges towards the next wall, Bronn leans over in his saddle.

"You should know one thing before we go in," he whispers. "Word just arrived yesterday. There was an… incident at the trial."

Missandei's heart stops. "What happened?"

"The details are… unclear. But there are many dead, Daenerys and Euron have disappeared and the Golden Company controls the city. Your king has a crown in name only, I'm afraid. The Iron Throne has lost the faith of the Iron Islands, Dorne and the North."

"But we can surely count on the support of the Reach?"

"That ain't for me to decide, my lady," Bronn shakes his head and helps her down from her horse. There is no crowd to cheer their arrival. Only Lord Baelor Hightower awaits her, in a fine bronze doublet, his smile beaming and arms outstretched.

"The gods are good to bring us back together, Lady Hand. Come, I have tea prepared. We have much to discuss."

* * *

**The Kingsroad**

Bran announced the coming of the army long before the thunder of approaching hooves could be heard. But the small band of young travelers does not hide. They wait as the lines of knights with their pale blue banners appear over the horizon. The procession slows to a halt at the sight of the direwolf in the road. A knight in armor carved with runes leads them - Lord Andar Royce.

"By the gods… Bran Stark, is that you?" Royce lifts the visor of his helm.

"Prince Brandon Stark of Winterfell," Theon declares.

"Greyjoy…" Andar glowers ominously, recognizing the man beneath the wolfhelm.

"He is with me," Bran calms the lord. "You are on your way to the capital, Lord Royce, as are we. However, these children of the Riverlords need safe escort home. I would request you spare a selection of knights as their guardians."

Before Andar can respond, a sound of trumpets summons the progression of a huge blue wheelhouse, embellished with silver decorations of falcons and moons. It is surrounded on every side by eight mounted knights with winged helms and flowing sky-blue capes – all identical save their personal sigils coated in silver upon their shields.

"Lord Royce!" one of the knights calls out. "Clear this beast from the road! The king does not wish to be further delayed!"

"King?" Obara looks to Bran, confused.

"Do not make a fool of yourself, Ser Wallace," Andar chides the knight. "That direwolf could tear off your arm with one pull. This is Brandon Stark, Prince of Winterfell."

"Forgive me, your grace," Wallace backs away his horse, apologetically. As he does, the door to the wheelhouse swings open, almost knocking him over. Robin Arryn nearly topples out, clad in all white silk and fur with silver trim. The gangly youth is in heavy makeup and wears an oversized winged crown of silver and sapphires.

"Ser Wallace! What's happening?" he demands to know before seeing the direwolf and letting out a gasping shudder. "What is that thing?"

"His grace, Robin Arryn, King of Mountain and Vale!" Wallace stiffly declares. "This is his grace Brandon Stark."

It takes a moment for Robin to make the connection.

"Cousin!" he shouts. "What brings you so far from Winterfell?"

"We travel to the capital," Bran answers. "I had hoped you could spare knights to return my companions back to their families."

"None of my Winged Knights, of course!" Robin insists. "But perhaps… Where is the Night of Ninestars?"

As Robin and Andar select the escort, Bran looks back to the children as they applaud for news of their return. Hoster Blackwood looks up at him.

"You will go with them," Bran bids. Hos looks disappointed for a moment, but then relieved. He is no warrior. "Return your father's sword and cloak to your lord brother with my blessing. Know that the loyalty of House Blackwood will always be dear to me."

"Thank you, your grace," Hos kneels.

"Come ride with me!" Robin's voice turns Bran back to the wheelhouse.

"I am grateful for the offer, your grace, but I have my own mount," Bran declines, patting Ghost's head.

"Then I want to ride the wolf!" Robin blurts.

"I do not think that would be wise, your grace," Meera mumbles under her breath.

"Perhaps later, cousin" Bran smiles politely. "We are blood, after all. Ghost may take a liking to you. But we must travel on. We are awaited in the city."

* * *

**Stark Quarters**

Sansa tears lethargically at the huge piece of spice cake on her plate.

_So close,_ she thinks. _So close to having a family again._ But now Arya is missing and Jon has renounced her. And Bran is a world away in Winterfell. She looks across the table to Mycah and Brienne. _Is this my family now?_

They had both noticed her turmoil. Mycah had sought out the finest chef in the city and burrowed through larders for days to prepare a classic White Harbor dinner – a massive affair befitting his house's famed appetite. Now Sansa sits, stomach full to discomfort of food and wine. But it is a small joy, and such moments ought to be savored. How Mycah and his ever-morose father, Ser Marlon, had managed to stay so slim living in the company of their family, Sansa couldn't imagine. She knew for certain she would be as fat as old Lord Wyman in a year were she to live in White Harbor and sup at their table. To live in White Harbor, though, with Mycah… That was not an altogether unappealing vision. But she has no time for flights of fancy.

One of Mycah's guards, Broderick, enters.

"You have guests," he reports. "Northern lords and ladies."

"Which ones?" she asks, stifling a hiccup.

"It seems to be near all of them, your grace. They started arriving before dinner. I sent them to the roof so they would not disturb you."

Sure enough, as Sansa reluctantly climbs the stairs to their manse's roof, a small crowd is assembled.

Lord Glover is there, with a fresh scar from the chaos at the dragonpit. Tyranna Stane, Hugo Knott and Sigorn wait with him, and a few others whom Sansa does not recall. This is all that is left of the commanders who followed Jon south. And now they have come to her. She remembers them from her time ruling in Winterfell. But this is different. Things were certain then. Now, it is a haze. And she knows they have come to her for light. Mycah squeezes her hand reassuringly and Brienne parts the slightest smile. And Sansa steps forward.

"I am graced by your presence," she curtsies. "What brings all of you here?"

"I think you know why, your grace," Glover answers, bluntly.

"Our men tire," Hugo reports. "This is not our home. We were not made for these soft southern cities. We came here the army of a Free North. What are we now?"

_An excellent question_, she thinks.

"We hear that the king has summoned the great lords to pledge their allegiance beneath the Iron Throne," Glover continues. "This boy who was once our king, our Jon Snow. He cannot be king of a free North and of Seven Kingdoms."

"We were promised freedom," Tyranna growls. "I do not like the smell of deceit."

"Jon…" Sansa begins, but hesitates.

"We live to follow The Ned's line," Hugo vows. "And you are the Lady of Winterfell. We will kneel if you wish. But our men fought and died for a different dream."

"What is the word?" Sigorn asks. "Do we kneel? Or will there be a new king in the north?"

"Or queen," Tyranna adds, her piercing eyes falling on Sansa.

In the moment, she remembers mother and father and Robb, Margaery and the Queen of Thorns; old maester Aemon, Lyanna Mormont and Lady Dustin; even Arianne. She remembers Arya. _We must find what is right. This is what I do. I know this is who I can be. And I will make this right._

* * *

**The Crownlands**

The thunder of hooves on frozen earth rumbles across the plains as a herd of Dothraki stampede away from a burning village. It is not often that the faces of the Dothraki show fear. But as these raiders flee, their terror is real. Behind them races a shadow cast by green-scaled wings on high. Rhaegal descends from above, with Jon on its back. The last thing the riders hear is the dragon's roar before its fires leave only a streak of scorched earth and burned corpses behind.

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

His face still dripping with perspiration from flight, his wounds bleeding again, Jon breathes heavily upon the throne, looking down in consternation as Lord Rolland Crakehall bends the knee. The Hall is echoing and empty – only their three hostages are here to tribute, while Lord Harlan Dondarrion and a small retinue watch from a distance.

"With Lord Damion's death, command of the western armies falls to me," Crakehall is saying. "It is my honor to remand them to their true king."

"Very good," Jon nods approvingly. "You may rise." He turns to Hotho Harlaw.

"I can make no peace without my queen's leave," the hunched man shakes his head.

"Where is she? And where are the others?" Jon finally asks Strickland.

"Yara Greyjoy and the Baratheons remain in their cells, they refuse to bend the knee. And we have received word from Dorne and the North. I fear they too claim to no longer recognize the authority of the Iron Throne."

"Damn them," he shouts, and feels the blades of the throne slice into his fingers. He curses again and rises. "I want them brought here! Am I so weak that they think they can just turn their backs on me?"

He stumbles descending the throne and Strickland rushes to support him.

"You are not weak, my king," he assures. "But they do not fear you."

"Then they will," Jon draws _Blackfyre_. "First the rebel lords that followed Daenerys. Let them know that they have three days to bend the knee to their true king. If not, they will face the fate of all traitors."

"It will be done," Strickland vows. As the room slowly empties, Jon collapses back onto the throne, his sword hanging limply in his grasp. Davos notices the stripes of blood on the king's hand. He moves to wrap the wound, but is waved away.

"This is how it ends. Seven Kingdoms, three centuries, all cracked to bits… " Jon mumbles to himself. "Was it worth all this? I let it all fall apart for what? For honor? War is war. Tywin Lannister saw no justice, now the people sing songs for him. Have you heard 'The Rains of Castemere', Ser Davos? Will the people now sing 'The Fires of King's Landing'?"

"Your grace, had your father, erm, Ned Stark been king, he surely would have punished Lord Tywin."

"Ned Stark was not king. It takes a certain kind of man to be king. A king has a different sort of honor. A different type of duty to hold this realm together. I do not know if I am that man. I do not know if I want to be."

"I fear the gods do not ask us before they choose our lots in life," Davos moves again to mind Jon's wounds, but the king rises.

"The gods make kings of bastards, fools of wise men and villains of heroes," Jon grumbles as he limps away down the length of the hall. "All my life I have accepted the place the gods gave me. I think perhaps I am done."

* * *

**Walls of the Red Keep**

Jon looks up to see Rhaegal circling overhead, waiting to return him to his bed in the holdfast. But for now, Jon needs to walk. He wipes sweat from his brow and finds blood on his hand. The bandages are leaking again. Perhaps he should not have flown. But the realm must be protected. That is the king's duty.

He stops along a crumbling arch. Harlan Dondarrion stands in his path.

"Why are you still here?" Jon scowls.

"I promised the loyalty of the Stormlands will be delivered by me," Lord Dondarrion reminds him. "While I pray the Baratheons will see reason, I will keep my vow whether or not they keep their heads."

"No…" Jon, turns away, then back, then back again, thoughts tumbling and rolling about in his head before finally he turns a final time and strikes the lightning lord in a burst of rage. "This all started with you! You and your schemes, you turned the Baratheons against me and they all followed! I ought to hang you with the rest of them! You're all blind fools, the world falls apart around you and all you care still is who you can stab in the back to gain a higher name for your gods-damned families!"

He throws Harlan to the ground. "I swear to you, whatever the Baratheon's fate, you will never rule the Stormlands!"

Harlan remains facedown as the king storms away. Eventually, he rises and dusts himself off as Wynafryd Manderly emerges from the shadows.

"Did you receive the information I required of you?" he asks.

"Of course," she smiles lasciviously. "A flagon of wine and a few tugs on his manhood are all he required to part with Strickland's secrets. And he forgets it all in the morning. I must say, the pleasure was all mine. He is… gifted in more ways than one."

"Please, spare me such talk," Harlan grimaces at her lustful recollection. "Tell me of their plans. And then we may find our way into them."

* * *

**Highgarden**

Missandei sits at dinner across from Lord and Lady Hightower. Argilac, reluctantly stripped of his armor and stuffed into a too-small doublet, sits beside her. Art is there, and Talla Tarly, each paired with their betrothed, Hobber and Desmera Redwyne. Art's sister Hela and Talla's mother sit as well.

"We presumed you would prefer a more private affair before facing the rest of this madhouse," Baelor is saying. "We are, however, honored by your presence, especially given the perilous situation in the capital."

Missandei winces at that thought. She should be there with her king, she thinks. But he had commanded her here. And she has her own plans for Highgarden.

"On behalf of myself and the king, I must share our prayers and condolences for your fallen siblings," she aims to change the conversation. "I did not know Garth well, but Alysanne was very dear to me."

"She was dear to us all," Baelor frowns, sadly, before feeding a slice of pear to his pet lizard and putting on his smile again.

"During my previous stay here, in fact, I spoke with her at length about the future of Highgarden. Both your son and Lady Tarly laid plans with us, plans I hope to present to you."

"Ah, yes, they have mentioned such talks, but my wife and I have made arrangements that I believe will keep all parties happy. Save my brother Gunthor, and I have long passed caring for his desires."

"Yes, of course," Missandei is beginning to grow frustrated. "But as the Hand to the King, I…"

"Of course," Baelor shares a discreet look with Lady Rhonda before continuing. "King Aemon Targaryen, First of His Name. The reports from the capital concern us, you see, much as I am sure they concern you."

"The Reach has passed through a dark time," Rhonda speaks, extending a reassuring hand across the table. "And it is still winter. We need strength in times like these. We cannot afford the chaos of weak kings." Missandei begins to protest, but is not given the chance. "I hear that Dorne and the North will press their freedom. Perhaps it is time we do the same?"

* * *

**Maegor's Holdfast**

"I told you to seal the passage," Jon snarls as he hears Strikland and Grif enter. He sits, naked upon his bed, minding to his own wounds. His hard muscles are deeply bruised, his hair matted with dried blood. He grimaces, changing the poultice on his leg.

"You also wished to speak to my squire away from prying eye," Strickland answers. Jon turns. Sure enough, Grif stands there in a fine black doublet, the blue gone from his hair. He stands fully as Rhaegar's ghost, white hair to his shoulders, pale skin, deadly blue eyes. Daenerys' eyes.

Jon rises and walks, step by painful step, to face the squire. They are very much the same height, he realizes for the first time. The same age, same build. But they could not be more different. Naked and bruised, he feels as if he is looking at a mirror of everything he ought to be.

"Who are you?" he finally asks. But Grif does not answer.

"He is whoever you want him to be," Strickland takes a seat. "Perhaps he is the last of the Blackfyre line that founded the Golden Company, hidden from the prying eyes of the west. Perhaps he is Rhaegar's son Aegon, spirited away during the Sack of King's Landing. Or perhaps he is you. Or who you thought you were. The third son, Aemon."

"Bran does not lie," Jon doesn't look away from Grif.

"No, I am sure he does not. But it is said that Ned Stark carried a babe away from the Tower of Joy. What if the babe he found was not Aemon? What if friends, loyal and true to Rhaegar, switched the children and spirited the true heir away, across the sea to where he could be safe, raised to be a warrior and a leader by those true to the dragons? Raised to be a king?"

"Then he would know his duty," Jon runs his hand along the side of Grif's face, down his sharp jawline, the wound from the throne leaving a trail of blood.

"You answered and I gave, though I can give you naught but stories. But that's all we really are, isn't it? The stories that we choose to tell?"

* * *

**Arianne's Quarters**

Arianne leaves Ellaria Sand to the maesters' care. They doubt she will linger for a fortnight. It is hard to mourn for the woman who slew her father. But her hatred would be wasted on one so weak. In the end, it's just another blight on this cursed city. _The sooner we leave, the better. _But first, there are some good people left here that must be dealt with. One of whom reclines in the yard with a glass of wine – Sansa Stark.

"Have you heard from the king?" she asks.

"No," Sansa shakes her head. "I had thought that if nothing else, defying him like this would bring him to summon me. But I fear he broods alone in silence."

"Well, now it seems we find ourselves in the same place," Arianne sighs, pouring some wine. She offers a toast, but Sansa levels an icy glare in return.

"You slept with him didn't you?"

"Yes. I wished to make myself his queen, I never kept such intent from you."

"You manipulated him."

"Clearly not, or else we wouldn't be sitting here like this," Arianne laughs derisively. "Do not act so noble, Lady Stark. I sought to pry him with my body, you sought to win his favor with your blood. Neither succeeded, he is left with a broken kingdom and we must keep what allies we can. Can I count on you for that?"

Sansa hesitates for a moment, and Arianne can only wonder what wheels are turning behind her icy blue eyes. "Yes," she finally answers, and raises her glass to meet the toast.

"Now, for matters of the immediate future, will he let us leave?"

"Will he let us…"

"Leave. We've refused his demands and his men control the city. Our armies wait outside, I want to know if we need fight our way out. I think we could stand a chance, so long as he does not use the dragon upon us. Would he?"

"I cannot say," Sansa answers, sadly. "The Jon I knew would never… But he is a different man now, in name and spirit. And I will not leave the city until Arya is found."

"Yes, I hear the Hound has been turning down every door in the city looking for her. I will speak with Lord Fowler. My men will assist in the search."

"Thank you," Sansa smiles, and takes Arianne's hand. "I have thought about how we might ensure our passage. Their is one player left here, one kingdom that has not yet declared either way. His command is tenuous at best, but his titles hold. Lord Tarly."

Arianne seems unsure, but she sends her men to summon Sam from the sick ward all the same. As the two ladies wait, they pass time with talk of pleasenter times - Dornish summers and Northern snows, wolves and oryx, hot peppers and lemon cakes... and young loves, though that subject turns Sansa cold again as Arianne recounts her many carefree liaisons. Sansa is relieved by the time Sam Tarly is brought in. But the nervous young lord is immediately reluctant to hear their requests.

"I started all of this!" Sam shakes his head, frantically. "He'd never listen."

"You may no longer be his friend," Sansa seizes the quivering man by his shoulders, steadying him until his breathing calms. "But you are the Lord of the Reach and Warden of the South. He cannot turn you away. Not now."

All eyes fall on Sam as he looks down at his feet, then back up. He tugs tightly at his robes and straightens his back.

"I am. I am the Lord of the Reach. And I will go."

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

Sam wrings his hands nervously as the doors to the Great Hall swing open. He finds Jon on the throne, his royal garb haphazardly pulled on – untucked, wrinkled and disheveled. His crown rests in his lap.

"I did not summon you, Tarly," he shouts the length of the hall.

"I came to you on behalf of my kingdom," Sam slowly shuffles along. "I know, your grace, that Highgarden is in turmoil, but I want to assure you, your grace, that your grace may rely on me for support and council…"

"My Hand is dealing with the lords of the Reach, I do not require council from one who renounced his lands and titles."

"You took those same vows!" Sam is offended now, and in that offense begins to find courage. "The Watch is gone. Those oaths died with it the same for me as you. I may be a lord now, but I haven't changed. I... I can't say what you are anymore."

"I am the king!"

"Perhaps you should tell Sansa that? The only time you've spoke to her since we arrived, you threw her out. Or Arya. She's missing now, did you even know that?"

Jon rises and limps down from the throne, carrying his crown limply in his hands. "Ser Davos has gone to look for her. Against my wishes."

"Against your…" Sam is agog, and the words begin to tumble out without thinking. "She's your sister, Jon! You won't speak to her, you won't talk to Sansa! If you can't take care of your kin, how can you take care of a kingdom? What kind of a king are you?"

Jon moves faster than Sam could anticipate, seizing the collar of his tunic and dragging him to the edge behind the throne where dragonfire had destroyed the wall, a sheer drop down to the rubble below.

"Who are you to tell me how to rule?" he shouts. "A craven? An oathbreaker? I lost everything to stay true to my duty, you gave up nothing! And you stand here to speak to me as a lord with a wife and child, playing at magic while I am trapped on a damned metal chair!" Sam quivers as he feels the ground crumbling beneath his feet.

"Jon, please…"

"It's Aemon! I don't even get to keep my own name!" He drops Sam back to the ground. Terrified, Sam crawls backwards away from the edge. "A king must not show special favors, even to his kin. Sansa could not understand that. She thinks she can use me!"

"That's not how it is at all!" Sam pleads. "They're your family, Jon! They love you! Don't you love them?" At that, Jon collapses. For an instant, Sam fears he will topple over the ledge, but he catches himself and sits, legs dangling over the abyss.

"Have you forgotten what the Old Bear taught us? Love is the death of duty."

"Yes! I know! But it's up to us to choose which duties are worth killing love!"

Jon has no answer for that. "Why are you here, Lord Tarly? I know you haven't the courage to try and coerce favor from me."

Sam rises nervously to his feet. He knows the words he ought to say, exchange his loyalty for the safe passage of Arianne and Sansa out of the city. But somehow, looking at his old friend like this, he cannot bare to bargain. Instead... "Their is a sickness spreading among the burn ward, your grace. Not one that we knew at the Citadel. I'm concerned it could become a plague."

"I'm not surprised," Jon does not stand. "The gods curse a false king. I should have seen the warnings long ago. If it was all a lie…." He looks down at the bloody gash on his palm, left by the throne. "Leave me, Tarly. Take your concerns to Davos or General Strickland. Or his squire, for all I care. But leave me be."

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but quickly shuts it. Instead, he turns away and shuffles back the full length of the hall. He pushes the doors open for himself and slides through. As they swing shut, he catches a final look back.

Jon Snow is dead, he knows now. There is only King Aemon Targaryen, at last truly alone.

* * *

**The Red Keep**

The knights of the Vale and their leader's great wheelhouse had been halted at the ruined walls of the city, but Ghost had bounded past. The direwolf rushes through the charred ruins, as if it knows its former master awaits. The desolation becomes a blur around them, but Bran sees it all. He had seen it in his visions, but to be here, to breathe and smell and live the ash and ruin and death… that is an altogether different pain.

Men in gilded armor try to stop them at the gate. They succeed in pulling Bran down, but Ghost runs on into Keep. Bran topples to the stone as they release him. He hears a familiar voice shouting, and Davos is upon him.

"Prince Bran!" the old smuggler recognizes him and rushes to help lift him. "We did not know you were coming. You ought to have sent word!"

"I must see the king," Bran gasps. But in his heart, he knows it is already too late.

In the throne room, Ghost's heavy paws beat on the great doors until they swing open. The huge white direwolf prowls into an empty hall with an empty throne. A light fall of snow floats gently in through the missing wall behind the great iron seat, revealing a full moon and the vast night sky. And, marked against the moon, flying out over the narrow sea, far away from the city and the past and the ruin and the duties – a dragon.

At the foot of the Iron Throne, Ghost stops. And howls.


	41. Gilded Skulls

**Stark Quarters**

The sun has only begun to creep over the horizon of the bay as Sansa stands in her night robes on the roof of the manse. She had dreamed that night that they were all children again, at home in Winterfell. It had been sweet for a time, but the dream grew colder, and one by one her family turned to snow and blew away into the sky until only she and Bran were left.

She hears the clanking of armor on the stairs behind her. Brienne is already in her armor, even at this early hour.

"Good morning, your grace," the big woman smiles her strange, crooked smile.

"And the same to you," Sansa looks back to the water, longing for home. "You grew up on the sea, did you not?"

"Yes," Brienne takes her place beside her. "The Sapphire Isle. My father was the Evenstar but I, I awoke every morning to see the sunrise. Heralding the morning as the light dances over the waves. And then on to practice at arms."

"It is beautiful," Sansa sighs. "But it is not the North."

The peace is disturbed by shouting from the yard. Brienne reaches for _Oathkeeper_ at her side as they rush to the other side of the roof. Below them, men of the Golden Company, led by the Summer Islander Black Balaq, have forced their way past the guards and are restraining Mycah, still in his bedclothes but trident in hand.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sansa calls down. "Release my men!"

"We will, my lady, once you dress yourself and come down," Balaq calls back in his thick accent. "You have been summoned to the throne!"

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

Sansa is pressed tightly along with the crowd of lords and ladies being ushered through the halls of the keep. She had hastily dressed in an older dress, ill-fitting. She quickly finds Arianne, whose normally perfect hair is frazzled and mask askew.

"Have they told you anything?" she whispers.

"No," Arianne answers. They know that Jon had vowed to execute the lords still loyal to Daenerys, no doubt as a warning to those refusing to bend the knee. Perhaps Sam's mission to bargain for their passage had gone awry? He is here, too, pushed along with all the rest. Even Tyrion is here, trying not to fall underfoot as they reach the throne room.

Yara Greyjoy and the Baratheons are already waiting inside, in chains. Arianne flinches to see Ser Myles Manwoody in his white armor bound beside them. The hall is lined with men of the Golden Company and Horpe knights. At their head stands Harry Strickland, with Lord Harlan Dondarrion, the Peakes and Edric Dayne.

A shouting match breaks out as the doors begin to close behind them, cutting off the household guards who had doggedly followed them all this way. Mycah has the points of his trident at the throat of Ser Steffon Horpe when Harlan Dondarrion calls out.

"Let them in!" his voice thunders. "There is no threat here."

The sentries stand down and allow the guards to enter. Mycah and Brienne quickly cut through the crowd to stand at Sansa's side. The rising sun casts a blinding glare from beyond the Iron Throne, engulfing the seat in a dark shadow. A collection of spears carrying gilded skulls has been bound to the throne. Someone is sitting there, that much is certain. Their features are unclear. But Sansa knows, it is not Jon.

"Where is King Aemon?" Arianne demands.

"I'm afraid King Aemon has left us," Harry Strickland steps forward. "You can find it all explained here, in his own words." He gestures to Harlan, who presents a sealed scroll from his cape. "While I have no doubt we shall all miss him dearly, a crown can be a type of chain. And some men were born to be free."

Strickland waves his hand and his men release Yara, Myles and the Baratheons from their shackles, the iron links clattering to the ground.

"And so, as the sun rises from the east, so begins a new day in Westeros," Strickland backs towards the throne, arms outstretched. "We welcome you to this momentous day, an ancient wrong has been set right. It is a time for celebration!"

A handful of guards and guests clap their hands, slowly and unsurely, as the shaded figure on the throne rises and descends into view. He wears black armor and a black crown with rubies, a red surcoat marked by a black dragon. White-blonde hair drops to his shoulders and the sun sparkles from his pure, pale skin.

"By the gods, it's Rhaegar's ghost!" Lord Fowler gasps as Lord Dondarrion declares -

"King Griffin Blackfyre, First of his Name!"

* * *

**The Silence **

Arya Stark watches her surroundings carefully through the cold, dark eyes of Lucas Codd. It had been easy enough to kill the Ironborn raider. Lurk on the deck until dark, slit Needle across his throat, do the work of the Faceless Men and dump the body overboard.

She had feared that the red priests would sense her. But if they had, they had yet to say anything. Her deeper fear was that, as days passed without removing the mask, the dreams will come. And Lucas Codd surely held his share of foul memories. She only hopes their journey will not last much longer. She steps aside swiftly as Euron and Daenerys walk out onto the deck.

"Your men are grumbling," Daenerys broods. "It is their own fault they did not properly stock this ship before sailing. We will not stop for provisions until we have reached our destination.

"Do not be so harsh, my queen," Euron smiles, teeth stained blue. "They are good men, and true to our cause. But they men, with mortal needs. They do not hold the same fire in their veins as we do." He taps the dragonglass in his eye and leans in close, his breath reaking of Nightshade. His hand drifts to Daenerys' posterior. She angrily swats it away.

"We are nothing alike, Crow's Eye," she steps away. "And I am not Cersei. I am not your queen. You are my champion, nothing more. Mind your place and you will claim a share of my power. Forget yourself, and I will not hesitate to throw you to the sea."

"There are still shadows under the sea, your grace," Euron hisses under his breath. But he makes no further threats. Daenerys walks away to the front of the ship. Forley Prestor stands at the bow, red robes blowing in the wind as he summons strong winds in R'hllor's name. Daenerys takes a place by Eres, leaning against the rail. She recognizes these waters.

"The Gulf of Grief… Are we returning to Old Valyria?"

"No, your grace," Eres shakes her head and points further to the horizon. "Your destiny is older than even the Freehold. We press on. To the Shadow."

* * *

**Small Counsel Chamber**

Sansa examines the papers spread on the council table, passing them in turn to Sam. On occasion she throws glances up at Grif and Strickland who watch carefully. They had brought only the highest lords and ladies here to examine their justification – a sealed document in Jon's hand abdicating the throne and passing authority to the squire who just this morning had claimed the Iron Throne. To compare were a collection of Jon's writings from his time as Lord Commander and King of the North.

At last, Sam sets down the last of the papers. He and Sansa share a nod.

"There is no doubt," she rises to face the lords. "It is writ by his hand." There is a small murmuring amongst the attendees, but all eyes slowly turn back to the Golden Company.

"I am glad to hear it, Lady Stark," Grif smiles, speaking for the first time. His voice is sweet, Sansa thinks, like a song. "Now I am certain that the events of these past weeks have come as a shock to you all. And I most sincerely apologize for summoning you so early. My gilded knights are noble and true, but they lack, at times, certain personal niceties."

"So what do you want from us?" Yara Greyjoy blurts. "Do you mean to start where the last bloody king left off? Because loosing my shackles won't bend my knee so easily."

"Of course not," Grif flashes another grin in the sea queen's direction. "As my dear General Strickland so eloquently welcomed you earlier, this is a time for celebration. Your lands have for years been ravaged by war, winter and arcane horrors. The Blackfyre Dynasty will forge a new Westeros, one that each and every one of you will have a hand in making. I am honored to stand among such noble company. I look forward to hearing your concerns and consultations. You could call this, say, a Great Counsel. The Greatest Counsel. And it begins today."

* * *

**Highgarden**

The Great Hall of Highgarden is a round antechamber, with sloping levels of stone lined with ancient, intricate wooden chairs – built to house every lord and lady, high and low, of The Reach. A great stained glass window in the ceiling shines golden and green light on the floor of the hall, painted eloquently with a Tyrell rose. All of the visiting nobles now crowd the hall. Ser Argilac keeps a watchful eye on Missandei as she takes her seat with the Hightowers. Ser Bronn calls the meeting to order.

"May all m'lords and ladies please quiet yourselves so I don't waste no more of your time," the former sellsword nearly yawns through the formalities. "On the matter of the succession of Highgarden, we have heard the proposal of the esteemed Lord Baelor Hightower of Oldtown. We have heard a dissenting plan from his brother, Ser Gunthor Hightower." He glares at Gunthor, sitting with the Florents. "Before we proceed further, we have a further message from Lady Missandei of Naath, the Hand of the King!"

The surprise announcement causes a stir as Missandei rises and walks to the center of the hall. Art Hightower joins her there. Her heart swells and she sees herself for a moment in Astapor, addressing the guests of her masters. But her chains are gone now. In their place is an iron pin upon her breast. A pin that puts the power in her hands. _This could cost everything,_ she thinks. _This is not the king's will. But it is mine, and I must prove it can be done_. As the commotion ebbs, she begins.

"Your kingdom has been through a dark time. Now you have gathered here to find a way out. We have all heard from wise men regarding which lord and lady shall lay claim to this great castle. We have all heard how things may return to the way they once were. I, however, bare a different suggestion. I believe that the way things are was not good enough."

"Only a year ago we saw a revolt of smallfolk lay waste to many great houses!" Art joins. "An anger, a frustration boiled over into violence.."

"They killed my father and brother!" Hobber Redwyne shouts.

"And our grief goes out to your family, my lord," Missandei continues. "But the carnage has laid bare a turmoil beneath the rosy surface of this kingdom, one that will only rage again if left unchecked. I propose that we do not return Highgarden to the rule of a single lord."

"In Essos, there are other ways to rule," Art elaborates. "The people vote to guide their kingdoms, both the nobles and peasants alike!" That remark receives a loud laugh from the Florents, but Missandei picks up again with the explanation.

"Our proposal will see two councils – one of you, the lords, and another of representatives selected by the smallfolk. Together, through votes, you will craft laws, taxes and policy. The councils will meet here, in Highgarden, under the guidance of a steward."

Whispers in the crowd begin to grow to shouts as Missandei lays out the details of her plan until at last Lord Baelor speaks.

"My son, do you endorse this proposal?"

"I do, father," Art stands tall beside Missandei. And then, quiet Talla Tarly rises to stand beside them, seeming almost quite as tall as she speaks.

"And as representative of House Tarly, Lords Paramount, I endorse as well."

Anything else she has to say is drowned out as the hall erupts. Whatever the lords decide, Missandei smiles. She hears the sounds of freedom.

* * *

**The Road to King's Landing**

A trundled black carriage rolls heavily down the uneven road, carrying a full party. Allyria Dayne grimaces as they hit another bump. She had hoped they would journey in a wheelhouse. But Lord Harlan Dondarrion, it seems, had allotted no money to such frivolities. Shivering, she pulls the borrowed heavy black fur cloak tighter over her own purple travel clothes, looking in amazement at the woman next to her, seemingly unbothered by the cold.

Allyria has heard many rumors about Gilly, the new Lady Tarly. Personally, she disdains gossip, but she can say for certain, by the size of the young woman's stomach, that she was most certainly pregnant before the hasty wedding at Horn Hill. That would bring no shame in Dorne. But in the Reach, well, the whispers travel fast and far.

"Have you been to the capital?" Gilly asks.

"Once, when I was a girl," Allyria sighs. "Though from what I hear, there is not much left of the city that I knew."

"I hope my Sam's alright," Gilly frets. "He would always get lost in Oldtown… Is it true that you're to marry Lord Dondarrion?" Allyria's face sours. "I'm sorry, they were talking at Blackhaven, I did not mean to…"

"No, it's no offense," Allyria calms her flustered companion. She looks to the rear of the cart, where Harlan's children sit with Little Sam. In the face of the youngest, Barristan, she sees his uncle's face, her late betrothed – Beric Dondarrion. "Words are like wind, my dear. Who can say which way it will blow in the days to come?"

* * *

**The Maidenvault**

Harlan looks sternly across the dinner table at his son. The meal has neared its close. Edric Dayne has brought out his harp, Wynafryd sings for him, Ser Daemon Peake and his son, Ser Percy swap crude japes with their cousins of the Golden Company, Laswell and Torman. But young Tywin has barely touched his food. And Harlan has run low on patience. Rising, he bids the lad follow him to speak in private.

Thanks to their new friends in the Golden Company, the Dondarrion's new housing within the Red Keep was a broad improvement over the small manse afforded them before. The view from the balcony might once have been splendid. Now there is only ruin. But here at least there is solitude and quiet.

"I hope your mood recovers shortly," Harlan stands beside his son. "Your siblings will be here soon, and they will expect to find you well."

"And Lady Allyria will be with them?"

"That is none of your concern. This is not about your mother, nor Allyria."

Tywin tries to turn to leave, but his father pulls him back. Angrily, he pushes away. Harlan is taken aback, and a withering glare quickly silences further rebellion.

"Wynafryd has not been faithful. I have seen her with the king's pet knight, that Duckfield."

"Is that supposed to surprise me?" Harlan nearly rolls his eyes. "How else do you think that I learned of their plans? From the bloody Peakes? No, Wynafryd has been very useful for us. She has a good mind and quick wits, both of which you lack. She'll make a good wife for you."

Tywin sputters. "You knew? You wanted this? All those years, talking about honor, is it only your honor that matters? What about hers? What about mine?"

"You both sullied your honor with each other. Those no longer bound by their chastity might as well take advantage of the liberties that provides. This game of thrones requires all manner of players. Wynafryd understands this. It's high time you do, too."

* * *

**Stark Quarters**

Bran sits hunched over a cyvasse board across from Sarella Martell. Their eyes are locked on the ivory and jade pieces, deadlocked in a perilous game. As they play, Sansa sits at the table with Mycah, Brienne, Davos Seaworth, Lord Glover and Robin Arryn. Theon Greyjoy and Sandor Clegane lurk in the corner.

"I don't believe a word of it!" Davos pounds his fist on the table. "I warned him not to trust that Strickland. Nothing good ever comes of sellswords."

"I assure you they do not lie," Bran answers without looking up from the board. "Jon left of his own accord."

"Eh, did the trees tell you that?" the Hound scoffs.

"Oh, Sandor," Bran shakes his head as Sarella moves a piece. "After all you've seen, I'd think you would not be so quick to dismiss the higher powers of this world."

"Regardless, I do not like how this bodes," Glover growls. "The longer we stay in this cursed city, the tighter it grasps us. This Blackfyre bastard has no love for the North. Will he be so willing to part with it?"

"I don't like them either," Robin pouts. "They dragged me from my bed. I don't like to be told when to wake."

"This changes nothing, only the man upon the throne" Sansa soothes them both. "And I believe King Griffin may in fact be more amicable to our terms than his predecessor. His claim is not as strong as Aemon's. He will not want to risk more war."

"So I should hope," Glover rises. "I shall say as much to the others. At your command, the camp will prepare for a return home."

"Very good," Sansa nods. "You have my command. But be mindful of this sickness going about. We must not risk returning it home with us."

"Of course," Glover rises. Seeing the meeting is at an end, Brienne and Theon escort the guests out of the quarters. Mycah softly squeezes Sansa's hand as they go.

"I remember a time when Glover would have sooner spit in your face than wait on your command," the dashing knight smiles. She brushes a strand of his wavy hair aside to kiss him. "I'll pass on word to my men."

As Mycah leaves, Sansa turns back to the table as Sarella throws her hands in the air, letting out a grunt of exasperation in defeat.

"Well played, your grace," a broad grin crosses her face. "It takes some skill to beat the sphinx. We will have to play again, another day."

Sarella laughs as she bids farewell to the Starks and struts out. Sansa watches as she goes, before turning back to her brother.

"Some have taken to calling you the Queen in the North," Bran observes. Sansa nervously pours a glass of wine.

"I did not ask for that. By rights, Jon's titles ought to pass to you."

"No, you've earned them yourself. Do you think that's why I'm here, to take your place?" Her silence belies her answer. "I know people, Sansa, but you know politics. I can do nothing here without you." Sansa visibly eases, offering him a glass and taking a look at the game.

"Did you use your… gift to win?"

"No," Bran shakes his head and accepts the offer of wine, grimacing at the sting but drinking all the same. Sansa begins to examine the intricate set, piece by piece. "I cannot see the future. I did, however, study the history of cyvasse back to its invention. More than enough to become a master of it, though nearly not quite enough to beat Lady Sarella."

"Why?"

"Because while you have earned these people's faith, I must gain it as well. To beat her at her favored game, I have earned her respect. By earning her respect, I will earn the respect of Princess Arianne."

"Very clever," Sansa sits across from him. "Do you think you could teach me to play? I might like to challenge the Martells myself."

"Of course," Bran begins to reset the board.

"And what of Arya?" he pauses at that question, a sad look washing over his face.

"She has traveled beyond the reach of my powers. But there is another within the city who I think may yet help us."

* * *

**The Burn Ward**

Malora Hightower pulls the curtains back across the windows of her study, casting her guests – Sansa, Bran, Sarella, Gendry, Sandor and Sam into shadow. They gather around the glass candle, stolen from the Citadel in Malora and Sam's flight.

"Are you sure this is what you wish?" she asks a final time. "Blood magics are dark powers. The mages who made these candles… well, sometimes things are better off not being known."

"Every power can be used for good," Bran insists, leaning forward in his chair. "You and your father used such a tool to reach me in my time of need. I would not be here if not for you. My sister is missing, and Daenerys Targaryen will not simply fade away. We must see."

Malora, still reluctant, glances to Sansa and Sam for guidance. But Sandor has grown impatient. He marches forward to the glass candle, dagger in hand, and slices a long cut across his palm.

"This is how it works, ain't it?" he asks as his blood drips down onto the grooves of the candle. Sansa gasps as it begins to light with colors are beyond the natural spectrum, spiraling across the chamber and racing over their faces.

Malora steps forward, an empty wind spinning her long grey hair, orange eyes squinting into the light. "Show us Arya Stark."

* * *

**Asshai**

The port of Asshai is as dark a place as they say, Daenerys thinks, as The Silence cuts across the Saffron Straits. A journey that ought to have taken weeks has brought them here in days under the Lord of Light's power. Now, at last, the roaring wind in their sails stops, the fires burn low, and Daenerys rises to the bow of the ship, Eres at her side.

The city stretches on for miles in each direction along the coast, larger than any other city known to man but, to hear the stories tell, almost wholly deserted. The buildings, streets and walls are of the same black stone which seems to suck the light and life out of the air. The great River Ash cuts the city in two, trailing back into the massive dark mountains that arise beyond the city limits.

_To visit Asshai is to pass beneath the shadow._ Daenerys remembers the saying. As their great ship comes to dock, she knows why. The sky grows dark beneath the dreariest of clouds. But, strangely it is not cold.

"Odd of the Lord of Light to call us to such a place," she murmurs.

"It is said the brightest light casts the darkest shadow," Eres answers. Euron and Moqorro join them as the first down the plank. A red priestess waits for them there, flanked by shadowbinders in black robes and crimson lacquered masks. It is only when the woman speaks that Daenerys recognizes her - Kinvara, High Priestess of Volantis.

"R'hllor has blessed me to see you again, Queen of Fire," she bows. "We have made great work awaiting your return and ascension." Daenerys notes the banners of the burning heart flying from the city walls. "Welcome to Asshai."

Kinvara leads her a palanquin of ebony and iron, carried by soldiers in the orange robes and ornate armor of the Fiery Hand. She pulls aside the dark crimson curtains for Daenerys, Eres and herself, but closes them in Euron's face. The Sea King steams as the soldiers carry the palanquin away.

"A fine way to treat the one who carried her here," he glowers.

"Whinging does not become you," Moqorro quips. He points to a second palanquin, with dark blue curtains. "Ask and you will receive." The stout man shuffles away to board the second ride. Euron goes to follow but finds Ser Merlon and Ser Osgood waiting.

"You'd best get walking if you want to keep pace with your queen," he points them off down into the market where Daenery's palanquin is already vanishing. "There are no horses in Asshai." He turns to his men. "Stay near the ship. And be mindful of what you eat and buy. This place is cursed."

At that, Euron turns. Moqorro's palanquin is already moving, forcing him to jump and pull himself in. The Ironborn guards begin to disperse.

"I'm not leaving the damned ship," Eldred Codd shakes his head. "This city even has Euron spooked. It's no place for me."

As the crew leaves, Arya sees her chance to slip away and give pursuit. But as she heads away, Forley Prestor begins to follow, hand on his sword. The red knight had kept a suspicious eye on 'Lucas Codd' ever since Arya took the reaver's face.

She ducks down an alley, sludging through rancid puddles. She steals a glance behind her, but Prestor is still there. The buildings in this part of the city are dark and abandoned. She slides through an open door, feeling the slick, oily surface of the stone. Within, only the slightest traces of light from the door penetrate. Hoping to see clearer, she pulls off the face. _Needle_ in one hand, Codd's axe in the other, she prowls in the dark. There must be another exit.

Then, a glimmer of light shows she is not alone. There is a shadowy silhouette pressed against the wall. Arya draws nearer. But then there is a rush of flame at the door. Forley Prestor has entered, burning sword in hand. The light is blinding, but illuminates the man on the wall – if it is any man at all.

The body is covered by sickly black burns, warped and twisted flesh turned to stone, melted into the wall, mouth locked in an eternal cry. The flames cast dancing light across the room. Bodies, there are bodies everywhere! The sight of the warped, glass-like flesh is too much, Arya screams, spinning, and throws the axe. It takes Prestor in the shoulder and he drops his sword. As it hits the ground, it ignites the slick floor into a burning inferno.

The fire spreads in the blink of an eye – as it hits the corpses, their eyes light up with the embers and their gaping dead mouths seem to let loose a demonic shriek. Prestor scrambles to pick up his sword, and lunges. Arya dodges and the blade hits the head of a corpse, exploding into black crystal shards. She turns to face him, but the fire has spread to the ceiling now, and the door is on her side.

Arya turns and runs. Prestor follows through the flames, bellowing as his robes immolate. She makes it back outside, only to find a dark robed figure waiting. Impulsively, she slashes out with _Needle_, but the man dodges and slips behind her. As Prestor charges out of the burning building, he seizes the knight by his burning collar and slits his throat with a long dagger. As the smoldering corpse hits the ground, Arya turns to run, but hears a familiar voice.

"A girl should wait!"

Turning back, she sees the man walk towards her, dagger in hand. He lowers the hood and she gasps his name without thinking – Jaquen H'Ghar.

* * *

**Baratheon Quarters**

"You cannot go," Mya pounds her warhammer into the dirt, her words final.

"No!" Gendry protests. "Arya is in danger a world away, I have to go to her!"

"Your precious little wolf pup has more than proved she can take care of herself!" Mya snaps. "We have not. The Dondarrions fucked us. Harlan has this Griffin's ear, he might as well have the Stormlands on a silver platter already."

"I don't care if I'm Lord Paramount! We're Baratheons now, isn't that enough?"

"You really think a name's all it takes to make you highborn?" Mya sneers. "We're still bastards at heart in the high lords' eyes. If we give up our titles, we won't hold Storm's End for more than a fortnight. The lightning lord's death knights will have a dagger in your side before you ever get a chance to wed that fool Stark girl."

"She's not a fool!"

"By the gods…" Mya tears her fingers through her hair, pacing the room. "Without our father's titles, this will all be over before it begins. We have to do something… You clearly won't marry Dondarrion's daughter, so I'll have to marry the old man himself, most like. Or even the king, perhaps. But you have to hold Storm's End!"

"I'm leaving," Gendry grabs a rucksack of clothes and his warhammer, headed for the door. Mya moves to block him.

"I understand you're in love," she takes a gentler approach. "I was in love once, too. But love makes you stupid. This is no time to go playing the dashing knight saving the maiden fair!"

"You can keep Storm's End to yourself, Lady Baratheon!" he shoves her aside to leave, turning the title to a curse. "Marry whomever you want, you can have all the fortresses in the world. They're all shit to me if I lose her!"

The door slams behind him and Mya collapses into the nearest chair, cursing. Cautiously, Gendry's squire, the diminutive Nigel Tudburry, creeps into the room.

"Your lord's gone, boy. Fetch me some ale and find me some rubble," Mya reaches for her warhammer. "I need to break something."

* * *

**The Docks**

Sam watches Little Sam run about along the water's edge under the watchful eye of Alysenth Dondarrion. He breathes in the salty air of the bay and gags. He hates the sea.

"I don't like this place," Gilly shivers in the cold breeze off the bay. "There's death everywhere. We should go back to Horn Hill."

"I know," Sam turns up his collar. He stares longingly into Gilly's eyes, then back to the boy, laughing now and chasing a gull.

"Everyone think he's yours, you know," she takes his hand. "That's what I tell them. I hope you don't mind."

"Oh, no, that's fine," the waves are growing louder now, as Sam's thoughts draw inward.

"They say he's a bastard, though. But they call him Sam Flowers. Isn't that a pretty name? If they don't like bastards, they shouldn't give them such a pretty name." Gilly places her husband's hand on her stomach. "I felt it kick, the other day, for the first time. It's good, you know, to feel that and not be afraid."

Finally, Sam closes off the sound of the waves. He pulls Gilly in close and kisses her deeply, trying to forget the salt and the spray and the roar, only breathing, hearing, feeling her. The tears in his eyes land on her cheeks.

"You don't have to go," she whispers, wiping away the drops mixed with her own.

"No, I must," Sam hugs her tighter. "I started this. I have to find her. I owe Jon that much."

Reluctantly, they pull apart. At last, Sam takes in the sight of the boat that will carry him across the Narrow Sea – _The Frosted Fury_. Sandor Clegane is already onboard, making preparations with its crew from White Harbor. He is surprised to see Sarella, Garin, Gendry and Ser Myles Manwoody stride down the dock towards them.

"You think we were going to let you go risk life and limb without us, Tarly?" Sarella quips, slapping her old friend on the back.

"Don't worry, m'lady," Garin bows, his gold tooth glinting in the sun. "We'll take good care of your noble lord for you."

The duo jumps onboard. Gendry follows with a curt nod Sam's way, leaving Ser Myles standing. He has dismantled his Kingsguard armor, leaving only a few pieces of white plate over rough-hewn black wool.

"I took an oath 'til death," Myles nods. "My king is out there somewhere. Here," he extends a sheathed greatsword. Sam takes it, recognizing it as _Heartsbane_, his family blade. "General Strickland said to give this to you. Thought you might need it."

Sam stares down at the sword as the crew unmoors, thinking back to everything that had led him to this moment. And he almost turns to run back to his wife and son. But he is done running. Myles and Garin help pull Sam onboard. He turns back as Gilly teeters at the edge of the dock, reaching out to him.

"I love you," she whispers a final time.

"I…" It is hard to make the words come as the boat pulls away. Their fingers touch for a final passing moment. "If it's a boy, name him Jon."

And then the boat is launched, the sail unfurling, and the salt of the sea splashes up, blinding Sam's eyes. Sarella pulls him back from the edge before he falls in. And then Gilly is gone, and only the wide open sea ahead.

* * *

**A Rock in the Sea**

At night, a lonely rock juts up out of the water, just large enough for Rhaegal to perch and rest for the night as the waves crash upon the exposed stone. A man sits, shivering, pressed away into an alcove of the rock. He was Jon Snow once, Ned Stark's bastard son – Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and King in the North. He had been Aemon Targaryen, too, and sat the Iron Throne. Now he is no one, just a wretch on a rock in the ocean, half praying that at night the waves will carry him away. He was dead once. Now he longs to feel that sweet peace again. But his honor tells him he does not deserve it and his heart tells him he left his honor in King's Landing. So now he sits with his dragon, bound to life by one thing – his dreams of Daenerys.

As he fades off to sleep, he prays tonight he will see her again. And when the sun returns, he can only hope his dragon knows where to fly.

* * *

**The Disputed Lands**

Here, vast dry plains stretch for miles in every direction across the desolate landscape – ravaged by centuries of war between the Free Cities. But today, it is alive, crawling with the greatest gathering of armies seen in millennia – all united under a single banner: the burning heart of R'Hllor. From the Free Cities, from Slaver's Bay and even further they have come at the beckoning of the red priests and their miracles. Now their great fires make the plains near bright as day, leading down to the shore of the Narrow Sea, where a great temple is being built, surrounded by the thousand men of the Fiery Hand.

They stand at attention now at the head of the uncountable crowd as their commander rises the freshly laid steps to two great eternal pyres. An orange striped cloak flows behind him, his sulphur-colored armor embellished with flames: Dario Naharis. As he turns to look down upon the sprawling army, he can hear them chant his queen's name. The time has almost come.

"Daenerys! Daenerys! Azor Ahai!"


	42. Beneath the Shadow

**Asshai**

The labyrinthine outer limits of the ancient city are a maze of squared buildings of slick black stone, winding eternally in darkness. It is devoid of life and light, save for a scattered path of torches lighting a long rope pathway through the alleys. Two figures now dart along its path – Arya Stark and Jaquen H'Ghar.

"One must not stray from the light in Asshai," Jaquen warns, ever keeping one of his hands gripped to the rope as they wind through the identical black streets. "Or else one will never return."

"Is it really you?" Arya asks.

"A girl asks a question with no answer. A man wears a face. A man serves his god."

"I mean beneath the face," she will not give up. "Did a man give me the coin that brought me to Braavos? Did a man let me leave?"

The rope comes to an end at the entrance to a small hovel. Jaquen turns back before descending the stairs. "A girl may believe what a girl desires."

Arya follows him down, to find a small room with carefully covered torches casting a pale glow over idols of the Many-Faced God. Several other robed figures lurk in the shadows. More Faceless Men, no doubt. The last one she had seen tried to kill her. Her hand nervously creeps towards _Needle_.

"A man was cursed a thousand times for a girl's flight," Jaquen is saying. "We are losing the war now, because of a girl."

"What war?"

"The only war. Life and death. Winter and summer. Love and hate. The war against the unspoken one. The champion of fire was reborn, and the king of ice rose to stop the enemy's advance. But you…. A girl killed our champion."

It takes a moment for Arya to understand. "The Night King? The White Walkers?"

"The servants of the Many-Faced God have many names. A man knows them as Others."

"The Children of the Forest created the White Walkers," Arya does not believe him.

"And whose power does a girl think they drew upon? You slew the champion of the Many Faced God, and now the world is undefended against the flame that burns beyond the shadow. A girl must make this right. A girl must become a new champion."

* * *

**The River Ash**

Three boats drift slowly down the dead river, each guided by a red-masked shadowbinder. Daenerys reclines at the head of the first boat with Eres and her surviving Queensguard. The other vessels belong to Kinvara and Euron. They pass between great mountains, their peaks hidden in the dark haze that chokes out the light. Ser Osgood Grafton studies the sky.

"Is the sun rising or setting?" he glares up at the faint blur of light, barely visible. "I've lost track of the time. It's always so damned dark here."

"Must be near night," Ser Merlon Crakehall grumbles. "Lookit the glow."

Sure enough, as Daenerys looks down at black, thick water beneath them, she sees it begin to glimmer with a pale green phosphorescence. She dips her hand down to touch it, but Eres pulls her back.

"Be careful of the water, your grace. There is death in it."

"Not just death," Merlon murmurs. "I think I saw a fish. If I had a net…"

"Not those fish," Eres shakes her head. "Only the shadowbinders eat of the River Ash." They hear a hoot from the next boat over. Sure enough, Euron has caught several pale, deformed fish, which Moqorro has burnt to a crisp with a flourish of fire. He bites into one, tearing into the charred flesh. "The shadowbinders… and madmen."

"I am not so sure he is mad," Daenerys muses, watching him. "That is what worries me."

"The Lord has a role for him, as he does for us all," Eres assures her as their attention is drawn to the river ahead. Here, the path narrows between two mountains, sheer cliff walls rising up on each side, with barely enough room for one boat to pass at a time. The mountains are so steep they block all light, save the sickly green glow of the water.

"The Vale of Shadows," Eres whispers as their boat slips into the pass. And then the sun is truly gone.

* * *

**Highgarden**

"You cannot truthfully consider this!" Gunthor Hightower's voice echoes in the hall outside of the library. Within, he stares down his elder brother, Lord Baelor and wife Rhonda. "To abolish our very way of rule, throw it all away at the whim of some children and a foreigner? It's madness! The Florents will not allow it! I will not allow it!"

"No one asked you to allow anything, Ser Gunthor," Rhonda glares up from her seat as the livid knight paces the floor. "And I couldn't give a fig what the Florents think. I never cared for your wife when she was married to your father. And Lord Florent sacked my family's keep."

"The Rowans were traitors! They sided with Daenerys Targaryen against the throne!"

"I seem to recall your own loyalties to the throne varying on a whim," Rhonda scoffs. "I do not see you rushing to defend the will of House Tarly. The same queen whose honor Lord Florent so violently defended made them Paramount, after all."

"Damned woman!" Gunthor lashes out, sending a pile of books flying. He turns to Baelor, who sits calmly, focused on his pet lizard. "But you! All those years you spent, smiling and waving to keep the crowds happy while I ran Oldtown. I did the real work. And when father finally died, you throw away a chance to claim Highgarden to our family name?" He forcibly pulls the lord out of his chair, shaking the cuffs of his tunic as the tirade continues. "You could have been a king! And yet the moment you decide to grow a spine, this is what you do? You'll be the end of our family yet!"

"Take your hands off of your lord, ser," Baelor says, calmly. "And do not speak of our family again. You are a Hightower by name and blood. But you are welcome in my presence no longer." Gunther angrily releases him with a shove. "Now get out. You and your wife had best start searching for a new home."

Baelor slides to the floor amidst the scattered books as his brother storms out. His lizard scurries across the floor to him, and he smiles as it reaches his arm.

"Art always did have a mind for new things. Do you think this is right?" he asks Rhonda as she sits beside him. "These counsels… this voting… I do not know. If only Alysanne were here. Or father. They would know."

"They are here," she places a hand on her heart. "And they would be proud. You asked me many times what your legacy would be. This is your legacy. A new birth."

"Your hair…" Baelor runs his fingers through streaks of grey in his wife's pale yellow hair. "I do not remember this…"

"We've all grown old, Baelor," Rhonda smiles. "Even our son. I say he looks much like you, when we first met."

Baelor smiles, recalling his youth. "Can you imagine, how different things would have been if Elia Martell had chosen me instead?"

"I wouldn't want to imagine it," Rhonda tussles his thinning hair.

The lord of Hightower laughs, for the first moment in a long, sad while.

"Let's all grow a little older, shall we?"

* * *

**Arianne's Quarters**

"I wouldn't get too close," the maester warns. "She's likely catching."

Obara Sand nods in return as she steps into the small, dim room where her mother, Ellaria, lies dying on a stiff bed. She holds a candle, and Ellaria grimaces at the light, too weak to move. But slowly recognition dawns on her face.

"I thought you were dead…" her creaking voice is barely a whisper.

"I thought you were," Obara kneels beside the bed.

"Where have you been?"

"I took a vow to the King in the North," she gives the simplest answer possible. She tries not to gag at her mother's skeletal visage or the sight of the dark puss oozing from her eyes and mouth. "I am a guard to Prince Bran of Winterfell."

"Good. Good. You are meant to protect, my dear. Not destroy. Not… not what I made you become. I am so sorry." A bony hand slowly rises to rest in Obara's strong palm. "Let it end. Let the blood stop." Her voice grows fainter and fainter. "Your father is calling now. Perhaps… peace."

The hand slips away.

Obara finds Arianne waiting outside. "She's gone."

"I'm sorry," the princess extends a comforting hand, but it is brushed away.

"I heard that you legitimized the others."

"Yes. Elia will be my heir until I am blessed with children of my own," Arianne looks sadly at her cousin. "You know I cannot do the same for you. You murdered my brother. I ought to have had you killed. But you remind me too much of Oberyn. I want that still in the world."

"May I see?" Obara reaches for the silver vulture mask. Arianne nods, and she slips it off, releasing the scars and mangled ear beneath. "An evil thing. I wish I could have killed the bastard myself."

"Ser Rolland did that for me," Arianne sighs, embracing her cousin. "And he's gone too, now." After a short while, they pull apart. Obara knows it is time for her to go. "Things can never be the same between us. But you have a new lord now. Serve him well."

* * *

**Stark Quarters**

Sansa looks down from the walls as Bran receives the gift of a new wheelchair from the Dornish lords. Brienne stands beside her.

"I'm going to ask Bran to stay here in the capital," Sansa muses out loud. "Perhaps they will see him as a hostage of sorts. But he will be well suited to keep the peace between our kingdoms."

"Do you think King Griffin will part with the North so easily?" Brienne asks.

"He would not have called this counsel, otherwise. Your own father is on his way, is he not? How long has it been since you've seen him?"

"Many, many years. Not since I left Tarth for Renly's service. And then your mother's…" She looks kindly at Sansa. "You have grown very much like her, your grace."

"Thank you," Sansa smiles, easing into what she has meant to say for days now. "There is another matter that Lord Selwyn's return has brought to my attention. You are your father's only heir, Brienne. One day, you will be the Evenstar."

"Your grace, I do not know your meaning…"

"I mean that very soon I am returning North. And you cannot come with me."

"Your grace…" It seems for a moment as if Brienne has frozen in time. Her eye flit about, as if looking for an answer. Her sword hand grasps her sheath for reassurance. "I cannot. I am your sworn sword."

"I have other swords now," Sansa takes Brienne's hands and looks up into her eyes. "I am the Queen of the North. You have fulfilled your oath tenfold, to me and my mother. I release you from my service. It's time for you to go home, Brienne."

* * *

**The Small Counsel Chamber**

At last, after days of council, King Griffin I Blackfyre is alone with those he knows best – Harry Strickland and Rolly Duckfield. Finally, he may speak plainly.

"We should not have left Aemon slip away," he grumbles. "I do not like the thought that he and Daenerys both are out there somewhere. And he still has his dragon."

"It is cleaner this way," Strickland insists. "The poor bastard was a broken man. Perhaps he will find peace across the Narrow Sea. He will not trouble us again. Nor will Daenerys. Our friends in Essos have made it clear, the fiery cult has amassed in the Disputed Lands and are building a temple. She will find her way there and live out her life worshipped like a god."

"And if she decides to lead that army across the sea to take my throne?"

"There are not enough ships in the world to transport those men. And certainly no trees in the Disputed Lands to build them. We must focus on the matters at hand."

"What of these rebel lords?" Rolly points out. "Half the kingdoms have named their own kings and queens, it seems."

"Let them go," Grif declares, to Rolly's surprise. "We have secured the Stormlands, Crownlands and Westerlands. The River Lords' lands and armies are in ruin, they will not offer any opposition. So long as we can keep The Reach, we will be secure. Let the others fend for themselves while we consolidate power. I can make due with four kingdoms."

Rolly looks to Strickland for a rebuttal, but the old general agrees. "The most important issue at hand must be birthing your dynasty. You must choose a bride."

"And choose wisely," Grif affirms. "I will not suffer an unhappy marriage."

"I say marry whomever brings the most gold and steel," Rolly kicks his legs back. "The king can have whatever woman he wants in the night."

"Affairs only breed division and blood," Grif shakes his head. "No mistress is worth disorder in my kingdom. I must be content in my queen."

The doors swing open and Black Balaq strides in.

"Your grace, you have guests, if you will see them" he reports, but the guests are already moving into the room: Bran Stark is wheeled in by Meera Reed, Theon and Obara flanking him.

"The king has not given you leave!" Rolly rises, reaching for his sword, but Theon and Obara raise their weapons first.

"Sit down Duck, and be silent!" Strickland barks.

"Prince Bran of Winterfell," Grif rises to great the guest as his guards ease. "I have heard much about you. Many rumors that have intrigued my ears."

"I know what you have heard about me, your grace," Bran smiles. "And it, well, most of it, is true. I do not have wings. Nor a third eye in my scalp. But I do know that before I arrived you were addressing the matter of a queen."

Grif sits again and leans forward, his attention intent. "What do you know of that?"

"I know that Princess Arianne would keep Dorne under your rule, but her scheming unnerves you and her scars repulse you," Bran wheels himself closer to Grif. "I know Lord Dondarrion would bestow his eldest daughter, but you find her plain and morose. I know that Mya Baratheon has offered her hand, but that would offend Lord Dondarrion. I know that you find my sister attractive, but she will never abandon the Free North. And I know that, right now, Baelor Hightower plans to declare independence for The Reach, a kingdom you need to ensure stable food supply. Which means that is where you should find your queen."

As Bran finishes, Strickland slowly begins to clap, while Rolly's jaw drops agog. Balaq is unmoved. Grif only smiles.

"Why are you telling me all this, Brandon Stark?"

"Because I believe, with the right guidance, that you will be a good king, one who can keep the peace and one who can lead against the coming threats."

"My thoughts exactly," Grif extends his hand. "As you said, every great king needs a great council. Be my Master of Whisperers."

* * *

**The Maidenvault**

Lord Harlan Dondarrion carefully straightens the golden pin of the King's Hand on his chest. He hears a clatter behind him, as his son Barristan chases Little Sam Flowers about the chambers with a wooden sword. He had been disinclined to let the bastard boy and his mother stay in his presence. But his own children had grown fond of them. And it would not due to offend the Tarlys.

"Calm yourselves, children!" he barks without looking at them. They scatter as he turns, and he only finds Wynafryd Manderly left in the room.

"We spoke on this," he eyes her, scoldingly. 'The wedding will be soon enough. My own daughters can mind the little ones. Your cousin is staying with the Starks. I would advise you seek lodging with them."

"Of course, m'lord," Wynafryd curtsies, but rather than leave at once, she searches until she finds Tywin on the balcony, dangling his feet over the edge.

"Your lord father thinks I should stay with the Starks until the wedding," she sidles softly up behind him, kissing his neck. "To keep up appearances…"

"What appearences?" Tywin grumbles, moodily. "The appearance of a cuckold?"

Without thinking, she slaps him, leaving a red mark on his cheek.

"Are you so sure of our match you will strike me after crawling into another man's bed?" Tywin swings his feet to the ground, confronting her. "Everyone knows!"

'That's not true!"

"Yes, it is! Everyone mocks me, they say I'm weak. I'm not weak, I can't be weak!"

"You are not weak," she assures him, grabbing his flailing wrists.

"If you thought that was true you would not have slept with Duckfield!"

"Oh, for…" she goes to slap him again but refrains herself. "Everything I have done has been for you! Your father is the Hand of the King because of me!"

"I thought you loved me!"

Wynafryd pauses for a moment, watching her betrothed as kicks at the wall and begins to stalk away.

"Sometimes love must come later," she says. "You think your life has been so hard because a few sneering knights mocked you? My father and grandfather had grand plans for White Harbor. And those plans meant all my life my sister and I were stock for trading. The only life I ever knew was preparing to marry a lord and raise my family's status. I only prayed that the gods would send me a husband who could make me powerful enough that no one would ever be able to treat me like that again. That I could have power of my own."

"And the gods sent you me," Tywin pouts. "You certainly seem grateful."

"I bet my life on you!" Wynafryd marches to him, her poise slipping away. "The day they told me of our match was the happiest day of my life. I was going to be free! But when you arrived, I realized it was all a ruse. My grandfather planned to throw away my future to save the Starks. And so I took matters into my own hands. I didn't hear you fretting about honor then."

Tywin pushes her aside, making to leave.

"I don't want you anymore!" he storms away. "Scheme with my father all you want! I don't want anything to do with either of you!"

"Go on, then!" Wynafryd shouts after him as he disappears down the stairs. "Because no matter what happens to you, no matter how badly you fail, you will marry the daughter of a high lord, you will take your father's lands and titles, and you will become one of the most powerful men in Westeros. And you will have done nothing. You can only fall up. I do not have that luxury! I have carried myself this far! I don't need you!"

But he is gone, and Wynafryd turns back inside to the sound of warring children.

* * *

**The River Ash**

On the river at night, Daenerys dreamed that the sun rose in the west and set in the east. It had been so long since she had dreamt of Drogo. But she saw him there. She was still in the mountains, on the river, but the shadows were gone. It was day, the brightest, clearest day of all time. And he was there, her moon and stars, with her son. And Jorah. And everyone else she had lost along the way.

Now, as she sits awake in the front of her boat. She knows what the dream pertained. She is a survivor. The pain of her past had brought her here, the lives she lost given to birth a new life, one where she would bring forth a summer with no end. But for now, they travel in darkness. And the shadows seem to dance upon the cliff walls.

"What was that?" Ser Merlon startles to see movement in the cliffs above. He and Osgood reach for their bows.

"Do not bother with the shadows," Eres chides him. "There are things in this land not meant for mortal eyes." Daenerys peers up into the dark haze anyway. The valley is wider now, but there is still no sign of the sun, nor the peaks of the mountains. She feels something calling to her soul from the dark sky above. And then she sees it – there for only a moment – a passing shadow, a silhouette. A dragon.

"It can't be…" she whispers.

"What cannot be?" Eres asks. "You are Azor Ahai reborn, my queen. Anything can be."

As she scans the sky for more signs of movement, however, her eyes come to rest on something altogether different. Out from the shadows before them rises the hulk of broken city walls, black as darkest night. She knows this place. The haunted city of legend – Stygai.

The river here splits apart into a dozen canals running beneath the city, and the boat comes to rest at the foot of a great blackstone staircase leading up to shattered gates, and nothing but the sickly haze beyond.

Daenerys steps off the side of the boat and her feet slip into the cold water that laps upon the slick steps. She rises slowly, looking up at the great haunted city before her. And she feels it, lying in wait within the shades. The power she has been waiting her whole life to claim. The power to reshape the world.

* * *

**Highgarden**

Ser Argilac Horpe's kingsguard armor is stark against the dark night sky as he follows Missandei, walking along the walls of the fortress, her own blue cloak blowing wistfully in the evening wind. They find Talla Tarly and Art Hightower waiting for them.

"Then it's true," Missandei smiles to see the look upon their faces. "It's happening."

"Indeed!" Art bursts out, Talla dancing a little jig. "We're doing it, we're really changing things, just like your queen… " He catches himself. "Oh, I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine," Missandei looks out to the stars. "You're right. It's what she would have wanted." He steps closely beside her, his breath fogging the air.

"You often spoke of a love you had in her army. Did you find him?"

"I did. The fates were not altogether unkind. I looked into his eyes, one last time."

"I'm sorry," Art apologizes again.

"Do not be. You did not kill him, any more than you made Daenerys burn the capital."

They look at each other for a long while. He leans forward, about to kiss her, but pulls away. "Our betrothals will remain in place," he looks back to Talla. "It is the only way to appease the Redwynes. We should go, they await us in the hall."

Missandei watches as the two young nobles leave. When she turns back, Argilac's ever-grim face has grown a shade darker. He hands her a missive.

"From the capital. Ser Bronn thought it best that you know first."

As she reads, her heart begins to unravel. _Not again… not again…_ But it is so. Jon is gone. Yet another king sits the Iron Throne. She looks down at the pin on her chest, meaningless now. No. She earned this. It still holds meaning. The fight is not yet done.

"My lady, I served you before Aemon took his throne," Argilac kneels. "I will serve you still."

"Very good, my friend," she hands him back the missive. "Burn this. No one must know until we reach the capital."

* * *

**Highgarden – Ser Gunthor's Quarters**

"He's a damned fool, he always has been!" Gunthor Hightower yells as he and his wife storm in, slamming the door behind him in a rage. "It's a disgrace."

"I know," Rhea pulls him close to kiss. "But I do love you when you're angry. You get so fierce. And hard…"

Gunthor throws himself down onto their bed with her beneath him and begins to tear at her blue flowered gown, unable to find a way beneath it in his frustration. He hears a ripping sound and pauses for a moment.

"I think I've torn it."

"I don't care!" Rhea pulls apart the laces on his breeches. "Now!" Guthor tears harder, splitting the seams of the gown until he has reached what lies beneath and lowers himself.

"Gods!" she gasps. "Thank them your father never touched me."

"My father was a fool for that," Gunthor grits his teeth. "Just as he was a fool for putting Baelor in charge. We could have been kings. Now this whole place will reek of peasants before long!"

"Then what are you going to do about it?" Rhea pulls him down to kiss, but instead bites hard on his lip, drawing blood, but he does not stop.

"That's an excellent question," a voice sounds from behind them. Rhea lets out an unearthly shriek and shoves Gunthor violently off her. He stumbles and spins around to find Lord Titus Peake lurking in the corner, stroking his sharp goatee.

"Peake! What in the Seven Hells…" Gunthor sputters. "How long have you been…"

"I was waiting to speak with you, but it just seemed so rude to interrupt such a… loving affair," he smirks. "That's a fine high tower you've got there, ser."

Gunthor, embarrassed, tears down the curtains from the bed to cover himself as Rhea rises in her shredded gown.

"I should have my husband gut you!" she shrieks, clawing at his face, but Peake only laughs. "Get out of my room! Get out of our castle!"

"Ah, ah, ah," Peake waves his finger tauntingly. "Not your castle. Unless…"

"Unless what?" Rhea retreats to Gunthor's side.

"I am privy to certain… recent developments. As you may recall, there are three castles on my sigil," he points to the banner on his black surcoat. "But now my house only has one."

"Your ancestors were fools who joined rebellions they could not win," Gunthor scoffs. "What is that to us?"

"My family has always awaited the return of the Blackfyre line to reclaim what is ours. And now my exiled cousins have returned. The game is almost won. Aemon Targaryen is gone. There is a new king sitting the Iron Throne. And if you listen to me, he will give you everything that you desire."

* * *

**Stygai**

The shadowbinders guide the small party through the empty streets of the haunted city. The buildings here are of the same black stone as Asshai, but older – much older, seemingly carved out of the ground itself. The only light that falls here amidst the suffocating, ashy haze is from the torches Kinvara, Moqorro and Eres hold aloft. The deeper they walk into the city, the more ruined it becomes, buildings not just crumbled but shattered, leveled to the ground. Each new stone skeleton looms out of the shadow like a great beast in attack. As they cross a broken bridge over another off-shoot of the green-glowing river, Euron leans close to Daenerys. His dragonglass eye has begun to spark.

"Can you feel it, your grace? Time is stopped here. I can taste the power in the air. So this is what the Raven was so afraid of…"

He draws his cutlasses and stalks forwards, past the shadowbinders into the fog in front of them, ignoring their warnings.

"Lord Greyjoy, come back!" Daenerys shouts after him. "It is not safe!"

"Maybe for a mortal," he laughs as he fades from view. "But we're beyond that, aren't we?" She moves to run after him, but Eres and Kinvara hold her back.

"Let him make his own way," Eres whispers. But Ser Osgood does not hear. Or, if he does, he doesn't listen. Instead, the knight draws his sword and marches out after Euron. Daenerys notes the oily black pitch has stained his white cape. And there is movement in the shadows.

"Damn fool knight!" Moqorro shouts after him. "Leave the Crow's Eye be!"

At the priest's command, Osgood turns back. And then there is a rush and a shadow within the shade moves between them and the group. He freezes, and Daenerys turns to see more shapes moving in the fog behind them. She frees her halberd from the sheath on her back, but Eres grabs her arm. Another shadow moves, closer to Osgood.

"By the Lord…" he gasps and his sword ignites with fire and lunges.

"No!" Kinvara shouts, but it is too late. Blades of darkness pierce his armor in an instant, blood spattering out upon the stone. A dozen shadows rush out of the darkness towards the group, the shadowbinders move to fend them off. And then a roar from above, a great force of descending wind and one of the guardians is pulled screaming away into the air.

At that, Daenerys charges forward, she will wait no longer. Her halberd bursts with fire, cutting a path out in front of her through the fog. She hears Eres and Merlon call after her, but bids them no heed. She can feel the power calling her from beyond. The bitter shadow blinds her, stinging her eyes and turning to foul, slick bile in her mouth but she goes on. Until it stops.

It feels as if she has broken through a wall. The fog rises up in a ring around her, but it is gone here. And so is the city, any civilization that once was melted down to a smooth, crystalline black ground reflecting her face back up at her. And in the center of the ring, a great black rock unlike any she has ever seen rests, half buried in the ground. It is covered with gaping pores, spewing shadows up into the air.

Before the rock she sees Euron, on his knees, his eye ablaze, head bent back to the sky, his mouth strewn open in a mad, silent howl as a thousand shadows course within him. As Daenerys walks forward, her halberd burns brighter and hotter, until she drops it clatter to the ground.

She walks past Euron's contorted form until she is close enough to the rock to reach out and touch it. Instead, the shadows align into the shape of… something. The shape bends and twists until it is something recognizable, but ever changing. A man… then a woman… than something altogether inhuman.

"Take off your shoes," it commands. "For you stand on hallowed stone."

The spiraling wall of fog erupts with fires within. Daenerys, in awe, obeys, tossing her worn sandals aside. They slide across the slick stone to land by Euron.

"What… who…" she tries to find words.

"In my old life, I had a name, but that was millennia ago. I have long since forgotten it. Names are for mortals. History has named me the Bloodstone Emperor. I have waited millennia to see you again, my champion." It's hands reach out, grasping strands of dusk and flame wrap around her and flow within. The mouth opens, and from it comes the deafening roar of a dragon. And from the sky above, more calls answer. Looking up, she sees them: Dragons – ancient and dark, larger than her children had ever grown, with wings like shadow and fires as dark as night. They spiral in a great circle in the air, rising in and out of the fog as their song cuts through the darkness. This is her family, she knows. This is where it all began.

"The Great Darkness has passed, for a time. The enemy, Death, has lost its champion. The time has never been greater to strike. The Empire of the Dawn will rise again and bring a summer that never ends, where all men will be free forever. The world is about to be reborn through fire by your hand. Azor Ahai."

In a gust of hot dragon breath, the spirit vanishes as the largest dragon comes crashing down to land upon the rock. But its power surges within Daenerys. She turns back to see Rolland and the priests stumble out of the fog and into her light. She steps towards them, hearing the earth sizzle beneath her bare feet.

"Rise," she commands Euron, who snaps back to the ground and picks himself up. Seizing him by the collar, she kisses him deeply on the mouth, devoid of passion, but breathing the fire of her life down his throat. There will be no more betrayal. He is all hers now. His remaining pupil clouds over with inky black as he steps in beside her. She looks back to her kneeling companions.

"All is prepared!" she declares, her voice echoing from the storm raging around them. "The words are fulfilled. You have brought me this far. Let us finish the work."

Moqorro is the first to rise, looking curiously at the queen and Euron. "Beg pardon, your grace, but the prophecy holds the dragon shall have three heads? I see only two. Where is the other?"

"Do not worry, priest," Daenerys smiles. "He is already here."

* * *

**Asshai**

Beyond the mountains, on the shore of the sea, it is still day. And from the docks, those who care to look to the sky at the right moment begin to cry out as a great green dragon soars overhead. From Rhaegal's back, Jon can see a fiery storm lighting in the mountains beyond. And in his heart, he swears he hears a dragon's roar.


	43. Five Crowns Part 1

**The Roseroad**

A great crowd has assembled to send off the grand caravan of knights and nobles en route for the capital. Dozens of banners fly high against the cool blue winter sky - Redwyne grapes, Florent foxes, Peake towers, Tarly huntsmen and, of course, the Hightower itself. Lord Baelor Hightower is the last to exit the castle with Gunthor and Art. His squire, Luthor Tyrell, of the Oldtown branch, helps him to his horse. He notes the Valyrian blade at Gunthor's side.

"Is that Vigilance?" he asks.

"Yes, brother," Gunthor glares over as he mounts his own steed. "Garth gave it to me when the battle was lost, so that the sword would not be taken."

"Considerate of him," Baelor looks sad for a moment. "If only he had thought to save himself as well. And Alysanne."

"Our siblings were never ones to run from battle."

"No. Not all men can be like you," Baelor notes sadly, his own insult unrecognized. "That sword ought to belong to the Lord of Oldtown."

"You wouldn't know what to do with it," Gunthor is offended.

"No, I suppose not. But Art will. Luther, please help Ser Gunthor give my son his sword." Without another word, he clips his heels and lurches off down the line, leaving his nervous squire to take _Vigilance_ from the brooding knight.

Baelor stops by a great bronze wheelhouse to speak to his wife and daughter. As they talk, Talla Tary is helped up by her betrothed, Lord Hobber Redwyne. He smiles at her, his odd, twitching smile that wriggled across his pox-scarred and pimply face. She kisses his gloved sword hand, maimed by fire. They only share a brief moment before Baelor is off again and Hobber behind him.

Talla suppresses a giggle at the sight of Lord Hightower riding. She had seen him practice in the yard during his stay at Highgarden, and certainly appears more confident, now. While Ser Desmond Redwyne still outshines him in near every way, he at least sits calmer in the saddle than his goodbrother Lord Rowan or fat old Leo Tyrell.

"It is fine to laugh, child," Rhonda assures her. Talla gasps in horror that she was heard. "There is no offense. My husband is no great knight. It would hurt him more to pretend that he were."

Meanwhile, Missandei walks through the crowd, greeting those as she passes. She catches a glimpse of young Lord Alan Ambrose, whose parents had been so dear to her, beneath his yellow banner of red ants.

"I should speak to him," she turns aside, but Ser Argilac advises against it.

"He is busy, m'lady. This parade has been held up far enough, I think. And the longer we stay, the longer they have to discover you're Hand to a vanished king."

The two walk briskly until they reach the wheelhouse. Argilac nods to his nephew, Ser Daeron, sworn to House Tarly at guard nearby. Missandei pulls herself up into the carriage, joining the collection of noblewoman inside. Rhonda and Talla welcome her, though she earns little more than derisive snobs from Rhea and brusque Lady Pommingham. To them, she thinks, she'll never be more than a foreigner who usurped their schemes for Highgarden. _What will that mean when they learn Aemon is no longer king?_ Closing the wheelhouse door, Argilac rides to the front of the line, where Ser Bronn is exchanging final words with the vanguard, led by Lord Titus Peake, Ser Denys Redwyne and Gunthor.

"There be reports of Dothraki raiders along the road," Bronn is saying. "Went spur-mad when their queen fled, I suppose. Best keep a heavy watch."

"The knights of the Reach turned back the Dothraki once before," Gunthor vows proudly as the castellan rides away. "They would be fools to attack us without a dragon at their back."

"Were you there at the Battle of the Roseroad, ser?" Argilac asks.

"No," he admits.

"Then do not make boasts of better men's victories," Argilac warns. "I have seen the Dothraki fight. If you do not fear them, you will be dead."

That and a stern glare from the others silences Gunthor. And with a wave of Ser Desmond's wrist, the caravan is on the move.

* * *

**Asshai**

Arya sulks through a vast market, following Jaquen H'Ghar through long spirals of vendors peddling all manner of arcane wears. They stop before one stand so that Jaquen may haggle for dragonglass, conversing with the seller in the strange, rhythmic tongue of Asshai. As the deal is completed, the seller continues to speak, and the assassin's face grows grim.

"What is he saying?"

"The people say they have heard dragons in the night," Jaquen translates. "It can only mean the time of the final battle is nearly at hand. Some even say they saw a great green dragon fly over the city itself."

Arya freezes at that memory._ Jon. That is Jon's dragon!_ "Ask him where it went!"

Jaquen asks the merchant in their strange tongue, before turning back. "He says that it disappeared into the dead reaches of the city. A girl cannot follow it there."

"What if I want to?"

"Do not dare to stray from this path again. What is required of your destiny will be brought by the Many-Faced God. See?"

He points, and Arya follows the line of his finger. She nearly gasps when she sees him – Jon passing through the crowd, looking half dead, his clothes dirty and torn, but still Jon, all the same. She moves to go to him, but Jaquen holds her back.

"That man has his own destiny. A girl must await the ceremony."

"I don't know what your ceremony is," Arya pushes his hand away. "But if you want me to kill Daenerys and stop whatever war you're fighting, then you have to let me do it my way." Jaquen smirks only the slightest, looking doubtful. "You trained me. You know I can do it."

"A girl may choose her weapon. But the Many-Faced God still demands a champion." Ominous as that may seem, he lets her go. And as she turns away, tracing Jon's path through the market, she once again wears the face of Lucas Codd.

* * *

**The Frosted Fury**

The small Manderly ship with its white plastered frame rolls across the sea as quickly as the wind can blow the teal merman on their sail. Below decks, Sarella Martell finds Sam Tarly hunched over a pile of ancient books and scrolls, waving his fingers in the air and uttering incantations in lost tongues beneath his breath.

"Stole some of Mallora's texts, did you?" she asks, startling him into falling down from his stool. "She's going to kill you when we get back."

"She'll never notice," Sam reassures himself as much as Sarella. "She's busy every day with the sick. Besides, if we're going to be fighting a bunch of fire wizards, I'd like to know a few spells of my own."

Sarella laughs and takes a swig from her canteen, recoiling at the taste of stagnant water. "What kind of wine do you suppose they have in Asshai?"

"I'm not much concerned with the wine," Sam gripes. "It's the magic I'm worried about. I've heard all manners of dark stories..."

"Sam the Slayer afraid of a few priests wallowing in goat's blood?" Sarella laughs, jabbing the fat lord in his side. "Marwyn visited Asshai. He said there were dark arts there, to be true. But we've fought death walking, Tarly, it's nothing we can't handle. Now give me one of those books."

"What? I thought you were afraid of Mallora?" Sam teasingly pushes her away.

"I'll be blamed for this anyway," Sarella shrugs. "Might as well get some use out of it."

Above deck, the White Harbor captain Broderick steers their path. Gendry paces solemnly on the creaking deck. Garin and Ser Myles stand at the rear, trying to catch fish and sharing tales of Dorne. As the boards wear beneath his feet, Gendry finally stops at the bow of the ship, where the Hound sits stiffly, the salty sea breeze blowing and tangling his hair. He remembers the last time they were on a boat together. Arya was with them then. He remembers the last time he spoke to her. A darker memory. He vows it will not be the last.

"Thank you for coming to look for her, Clegane."

"Ain't nothing to thank me for. I got nothing else to do. You're the one leaving your whole damn kingdom behind, even after all that fighting. Bet your sister wasn't happy about that." Gendry looks away. "Eh, you must really love her. But if you ask me, you've got the right idea. Nobles ain't worth shit."

* * *

**The Walls of King's Landing**

Brienne counts the banners as the approach, a small party of Stormlords. But at their head she sees the quartered sun-and-moon, and knows her father has arrived. Davos Seaworth stands with her, and yawns.

"You seem pleasant today," she comments.

"I may not trust the Golden Company, but this Griffin seems reasonable enough," Davos growls in his own charming way. "At last we have a king with the good sense not to put me on his council."

"What are you going to do, Ser Davos, now that your role in this game is done?" Brienne asks, sadly, as her father's banners ride beneath the walls.

"I'm going to go home to my wife and what children I have left and never leave my keep's walls for the rest of my days!" Davos laughs. He is happy, Brienne can see, to be freed from service. Why can she not feel the same?

The two follow the steps down to greet the party, full of faces she can barely recognize after all the years - Her cousins, Ser Boremund Buckler and his sister, whom her aunt Larissa had taken the poor foresight to name Cersei. Her uncle Ser Cameron Tarth and his lady wife Melanie of House Trant with their son Corlys. Others who had joined their party – Lord Casper Wylde, Lady Mertyns, Ser Alyn Estermont, all come to see the new king and perhaps make advantageous matches for their families.

And then, from the leading horse, there is the largest of them all. Wearing a heavy rose coat, he stoops down from the saddle, passing his gloves to his squire, a peasant boy from the island. Tall as Brienne, but wispy and thin in place of her bulk, Lord Selwyn Tarth pulls the dark blue riding scarf away to reveal his face.

_My, he's aged_. Brienne thinks. _Though that is what happens when so many years have passed._ She lets him come to her and accepts his open-armed embrace, feeling guilt that the tears that come are not for their reunion, but for the end of her service to the Starks.

"My daughter, my daughter," Selwyn sighs as her hands slowly close around his back to return the embrace. "I think you have managed to grow yet even more since you left our home. You're taller than me now. Or perhaps I've shrunk."

"It's only the new armor, I'm certain."

"Ah, and fine armor indeed!" Selwyn steps back. "Wolves!" She tries to smile as he wraps his arm over her shoulder and they begin to walk. "Now, tell me Brienne, what do you know of this new king?"

* * *

**The Small Council Chamber**

King Griffin I Blackfyre strides into his council meeting with such a determined sense of purpose none would ever guess his exhaustion from days of hammering out borders and treaties amongst his lords, both those swearing fealty and those seeking to make free nations of their own. He pauses to take in his newly formed council: Lord Harlan Dondarrion, Hand to the King; Lord Tommen Costayne, Master of Ships; Harry Strickland, Lord Commander of the City Watch; Lord Tybolt Crakehall, Master of War; Ser Humfrey Hightower, Acting Master of Coin in place of his elder brother; and Bran Stark, Master of Whisperers.

"Ser Humfrey, has there been any news from your brother at Highgarden?" Harlan asks.

"He is headed to the capital with a grand caravan of knights and nobles," Humfrey shrugs. "I hear rumblings of discontent regarding his chosen matter of succession. And Missandei of Naath is with them. She is held in great favor by my lord brother, it seems she claimed a large role in the negotiations"

"But does he intend to bend the knee?" Grif presses further.

"Lord Baelor has lifted the notion of claiming independence," Bran answers for Humfrey. "The news of King Aemon's departure has not yet been shared with him."

"Ah, it seems Aemon's hand is shrewder than we thought," Grif smiles. 'We may find a place for her here after all."

"I would concur," Bran nods. "She would be wise company to keep. But speaking of their arrival, my sister, Queen Sansa, has raised concerns regarding the guests arriving for the council and wedding. There is an unknown sickness spreading in the wards, we believe it was carried over from Essos. The maesters have not seen it before."

"Lord Harlan, speak with the Queen in the North and Lady Mallora in the sick wards," Grif commands. "See to it necessary actions are taken. And that makes me think, see to it that word reaches Oldtown. I needs have a new Grand Maester and would welcome the new High Septon to perform the weddings."

"The Citadel is still recovering from the night of the dead," Humfrey points out.

"See to it that they receive what they need, and the good brothers and sisters of the Starry Sept as well. And when your lord brother arrives, we will discuss the rebuilding of your tower."

"There is the matter of the Unsullied and the Dothraki," Harlan notes. "The Unsullied remain in their camps, but they grow evermore restless every day since Daenerys' departure. The women and children of the Dothraki also remain, but much of their fighting men have dispersed to raid. While King Aemon disposed of many, only this morning we received word of another attack."

"I will lead my men to pursue them," Strickland vows. "Fierce they may be, but a horse is nothing against an elephant."

"A more conciliatory approach may be advised," Bran interjects. "I will meet with the leaders of both camps and see what solution may be reached."

"I approve both plans," Grif decides. "Lord Stark will deal with the peacemakers. General Strickland will bring the king's justice to those who chose to ravage my lands."

"If I may, your grace," Tybolt Crakehall speaks for the first time in the meeting. "I have pledged the Westerlands to you, but there is still the question of dominion. "Queen Cersei had named House Brax Lords Paramount after the fall of Castlery Rock. I myself served Damion Lannister, who yet has grandsons at the Rock."

"You delivered the Western armies to me, Lord Crakehall," Grif offers. "Say the word and I will give you the Rock."

"My own keep is enough for me," Merlon muses sadly. "And my brothers are all gone now. Leave me my forests, your grace. The Rock belongs to the Imp now by rights."

"Yes, Tyrion Lannister, a puzzle that one." The king has become perplexed. "He declined a place on my council. But what of House Brax? Is not their young lord in the city?"

"Flement has been missing since the riot," Tybolt answers.

"Lord Stark will find him if he yet lives," Grif vows, and Bran nods affirmingly. "Now, Harlan, I believe that is all? Excellent work, all of you. Have a lovely day."

* * *

**The Maidenvault**

"You're very pretty, you know," Gilly Tarly smiles at Wynafryd Manderly. She scratches at the sides of her woolen brown dress, still unused to the trappings of nobility. It fit her poorly, even worse as she grew more pregnant. Not at all like the tight-fitted teal silk the girl across from her was bound into, her cleavage puffing out of a thin laced slit. _Though at least mine is easy to breathe in_, Gilly thinks. _These southern women pack themselves into clothes like sausages._

"Thank you," Wynafryd leans back on the chaise lounge. "I've hoped to speak with you ever since I've arrived Lady Tarly. I've heard much about you. You know I'm a Northerner as well?"

In no hurry to discuss her past, Gilly rises quickly. "Would you like some tea, m'lady? Or some wine perhaps. Lord Harlan laid claim to…"

"No," Wynafryd waves for her to sit. "You are not a servant, don't fetch me drink. You are a lady. My better, in fact. Your Sam is Paramount of The Reach, is he not?"

"I think he said so," Gilly nods absent-mindedly. Sam's mother had warned her never to tell the truth about her birth, and the longer this northern girl pressed, the more she worries she'll say the wrong thing and ruin it all. "There are very few servants in the castle these days. I think I ought to get you that tea myself."

She moves to scurry away as the door to the vault swings open and Lord Dondarrion enters, flanked by two Horpe knights. His eyes immediately spies Wyanfryd sprawled out on the lounge.

"I told you not to return here until the wedding," he glares, then pivoting to Gilly. "We are honored to host you here, Lady Tarly, but you cannot just let anyone through the door."

Gilly stammers for a reply, but the answer comes from behind her.

"I let her in, Harlan. I hope you don't mind." Allyria Dayne steps into the room, in a loose flowing violet dress, draped with heavy fur, her silver hair intricately braided. Gilly immediately notices a change in the stern lord's demeanor.

"I did let Lady Dayne in, m'lord, I'm very sorry," she bows nervously.

"You did nothing wrong, Gilly. Allyria is always welcome here." He walks past her, but pauses. "But do remember to curtsy, not bow. Please leave us be. We have private matters to discuss." Relieved, Gilly quickly exits. "You too," Harlan overrides Wynafryd's protests and at last he is alone with Allyria.

"You shouldn't be so hard on Wynafryd," she saunters towards him. "She's clever. She reminds me of Ashara, in a way."

"If only Tywin had an ounce of her conviction," he sighs. "But if she is to be his wife, she must learn discipline."

"Your new king gave you the Maidenvault, I see," Allyria looks around. Her slender tan fingers flit to the golden Hand pin on his chest. "And this shiny bauble."

"That bauble is worth more than any of these flimsy luxuries," Harlan looks disdainfully at the silks and gems adorning the room. "I had meant to talk to you. About the wedding."

"Tywin's?."

"Yes," Harlan's stoic face begins to redden, his solemnity faltering. He fidgets with his pin, focusing. "But there will be more. King Griffin wishes to bind and heal the realm at his Great Counsel through celebration. I thought, perhaps, my lady…"

"Harlan," Allyria pulls away. "Are you trying to offer me your hand?"

"My lady," he hesitates, "I know you loved my brother. But I have loved you since the day we met. I would be honored…"

"Stop," Allyria places a hand to his lips. "If I marry you, it will not be to honor you. I spent years waiting for Beric to return to me. And it has not been so long since your poor wife passed. I will meditate on your request. Until then…" She tilts the Hand's pin askew. "You have greater matters to attend to. As do I. The Starks are hosting a meeting of the free kingdoms."

Harlan feels the air leak out of him as he watches Allyria go, cursing himself for haplessness and cursing his dead brother once again. He had always been the good son, doing their father's will. And if that had meant marrying a miserable Selmy girl, then such was his duty. But that had never mattered to Beric. And by the time they both met Allyria Dayne at a tourney at Starfall, he was already married with children to a sickly wife. But he had never forgotten those haunting purple eyes…

Wynafryd interrupts his memory as she returns.

"M'lord, I'm sorry to intrude, I know what you said, I'm just worried about Tywin. I haven't seen him in days, and…"

"That is the point, my dear," Harlan tries to take a softer approach, something that has never come easily. "We must keep up appearances."

"I know, but I'm worried about him. We fought the last time we met."

"There is nothing to fear," he assures her. "For now, your Stark hosts are meeting with the free kingdoms. I want you to attend, tell me all that transpires."

"I've already told my cousin to expect me."

"Very good," Harlan smiles, his briefly depleted confidence returning. Wynafryd goes to leave, but hesitates at the door. "Don't worry. You and I both know Tywin. He can be moody for a time, but he will do his duty by you. You are the greatest thing to ever happen to the boy. He'll do nothing rash."

* * *

**Baratheon Quarters**

"Send him in, Nigel!" Mya Baratheon commands. She sits in armor, in the largest wooden chair she could find, warhammer at her side, the yellow and black banners of her House behind her. _Much like a throne_, she tells herself as her brother's squire ushers in Tywin Dondarrion. She sends the timid boy out.

_How could a man like Harlan produce such a son_? Mya wonders as she examines her guest. Even Nigel may hold more confidence in his boyish tremor than the heir to Blackhaven, bundled in excessive black furs, who can barely make eye-contact with her.

"I hope you're staying warm, ser," she smirks.

"I'm not a knight, m'lady."

"Oh, I apologize. Do you know why I invited you here, Tywin?"

"I think so," he thinks his words through before turning suddenly defiant. "I no longer wish to marry Lady Manderly. I wish to marry you!"

Mya nearly has to choke herself to keep from laughing. "That is very impossible, I think. Your father and I are very much rivals. He would never allow it."

"We could leave the city. Tonight! Find a septon! I'm tired of him using me!"

"Don't be daft. Your father is Hand to the King. You'd never escape from his thumb. And to steal you away would only hurt my own reputation. No, what you need is to prove to them your worth."

_That got the lad's attention._ "How?" he asks.

"There is rebellion brooding in The Reach. And the king must maintain their loyalty," Mya watches as Tywin nods along, the wheels in his head slowly turning. "If you act now, you can put down the rebels and claim a bride for the king in one blow. And no one will ever call you weak again."

Once she is satisfied that he at least relatively understands the instructions, Mya sends him away. As Nigel guides him out, another young man steps out from the shadows. Ser Percival Peake, dressed in black mail beneath his orange surcoat, smiles an ominous grin.

"An intriguing proposition," he muses. "You remind me very much of your father, m'lady. I met him once, you know."

"Gods, don't speak to me of Robert," she groans. "I certainly hope I'm a good deal prettier than that lout."

"My father said he was quite dashing in his day, before the throne and the Lannisters sullied him. And that has certainly been passed to you."

"You should know better than to flatter me, Percy," Mya's hand floats threateningly towards her hammer. "I don't give a damn what you think of m'looks. I need you to convince your father to listen to young Tywin's scheme. And once he manages to bring down House Dondarrion, your exiled cousins may get their castles back and you..." she gives him her hand, "may join me in Storm's End."

* * *

_A/N: Lots of exciting stuff! King Grif builds his council and Bran puts his powers to good use. Brienne faces life without the Starks, Mya seeks to hold onto her newfound power and what can you do? Peakes gonna Peake. There's no House that causes more trouble. I didn't plan to split this one in two, but it got too long because of two fight scenes in the second half. I'm trying to keep them shorter and more manageable for ease of reading. So click right on to Part 2! We're in the final stretch and the epic finale is right around the corner! As always, thanks for reading, any comments and feedback are greatly appreciated._


	44. Five Crowns Part 2

**The Ruins of King's Landing**

Obara Sand and Meera Reed walk through the dusty hollow streets of the city. Here and there a standing building remain, and as those structures draw the people back within the walls, they sprawl out into makeshift huts and lean-tos set up amongst the rubble. They walk together, following Bran's vague guidance on how to find the missing young Lord Robert Brax.

"I heard you've journeyed beyond the wall," Obara tries to make smalltalk.

"Yes. My brother and I guided Prince Bran on his journey."

"Where is your brother now?"

"Dead." Meera answers bluntly and walks on. "Many died to bring Bran here, to this city of ghosts. It isn't right for the Three-Eyed Raven to be trapped in such a place. It's like a cage. Those inside are locked away from the real world, they cannot see the dangers until it is too late." She stops before the ruins of what was once a great market. beneath the rubble, a few charred bodies have not yet been moved. "Like them."

"What happened on the island?" Obara asks.

"Many things. They do not matter now."

"If I'm going to protect the prince, I have to understand him."

Meera does not answer, instead she stops before the ruin they were sent to find – the skeleton of a tavern, gone now, leaving only a descending stair. As the two women step down into the seedy, smoke filled cellar, two ruffians block their paths.

"We don't serve no nobles here," the leader barks.

"That's odd," Meera tilts her head to the side. "I was told otherwise."

"Get on your way," he growls. "'Less you want to work the beds."

Without further discussion, Meera kicks the first man down the flight of stairs. The other reaches for a dagger, but the butt of Obara's spear knocks his head into the wall. Before he hits the ground, the women are at the bottom of the stairs. Another swift kick from Meera ensures neither guard will be getting up for some time. They face no further harassment as they stalk through the crowd, waving tangy smoke from their faces.

"We're looking for a burned lad from the West," Meera declares. A few stray fingers point to a back corner. They find there a lad of about sixteen, face branded with the burning heart, staring at an untouched mug of ale and dish of bland gruel. Though his clothes are tattered, the unicorn makes his identity clear: Robert Brax.

Meera looks back to Obara. "You want the truth? I don't understand him either. But I trust him. And that's enough for me."

* * *

**The Stark Quarters**

Yara Greyjoy strides confidently into the northerner's yard, Hotho Harlaw following behind as quickly as he can manage with his strange, hunch-backed waddle. She breathes in the brisk air, expelling a puff of foggy breath back out, and straightens the driftwood crown atop her head. As Hotho enters the manse, she stops, spying something familiar about the wolf-helmed guard by the door.

"Theon?" she calls out. The guard turns, lifting his visor. Sure enough, her brother's face lies beneath. He almost smiles, but does not leave his post. She goes to him, and he lowers his visor again, but she tugs the helm off to take a closer look. "It looks good on you, the wolf. I used to hate you for becoming one of them. But I see now, this is your place."

"I fear father would not be proud," Theon admits.

"Our father is dead. His pride is worthless. Your own pride is all you need now."

"I see you got what he wanted in the end," Theon points to the driftwood crown in her hair. "Are you here to meet with the others?"

"Three queens and two kings rule in Westeros," Yara shrugs. "Griffin sends down his terms. We will see whether they are to our liking."

"And if they are?"

"Then our ways will part again, I fear. But I will not return home until Euron's bones lie burned at the bottom of the sea."

In Sansa's room, she finishes her hair as Bran watches. She pauses, wishing she had a crown. Arianne, Yara and Robin all had their own. But for now a simple grey ribbon will have to do. Satisfied with the results, she takes a glass of wine and a pastry and begins to focus on the task at hand. Lord Glover, Lady Stane, The Wull and the Manderlys would already be there to greet the guests on behalf of the North. But she will enter last. This summit was hers, after all.

Finishing the drink and snack, she begins the slow walk to the dining chambers where the new arrivals meet. Bran rolls along beside her, passing along information on the rulers and their parties that can be put to use in negotiations. Soon enough, they have arrived.

"A final thing," Bran notes. "You will soon receive word from White Harbor. Lord Manderly and his wife are expecting. With another heir on the way, they may be willing to part with Wylla."

"Indeed," Sansa thinks. "She would make a strong wife for Robin. That could calm his nerves. And further endear him to the North."

"I'm sure he will agree," Bran concurs. "He listens to you, if no one else. You handled him well at the Gates of the Moon."

"Thank you," Sansa smiles. She had forgotten for a moment that Bran could see herself, not just their allies and rivals. "Are you coming in?"

"No, I have other matters of the court to attend to."

"Of course, oh mighty Master of Whisperers," she teases him.

"Please never call me that again, or I'll be forced to start calling you your grace." They share a moment of laughter, a reminder of childhoods gone too soon. But it is only a moment, and they are grown again. Bran's wheels squeak as he wheels away. Sansa turns and steps through the door. She greets each of the guests in kind. And in this moment, the grey ribbon between her crimson braids feels every bit a crown.

* * *

**Chataya's Brothel**

_A man who rides a wolf ought to impress them_, Bran hopes, as the two men walk outside to meet him. He steadies Ghost as they near – Malaquo, the old, grey-haired Dothraki, and Grim Tongue, commander of the Unsullied. But even with all his power, the sight of the fearsome duo still unnerves him.

"This new king of Blackfyre sends boy and dog to reason with us?" Grim Tongue sneers.

"I am Brandon Stark of Winterfell."

"And what do you want, Bran-don Stark?" Malaqo rolls the name off his tongue, dripping with his heavy accent. "We will not fight for you. My men have already gone back to their old ways. The last king burned half with his dragon. But this new king has no dragon."

"I want what is best for your people," Bran assures them. "You stand here while more rash men have fled because you still believe in your khaleesi. The new life she promised your people is still possible. And you," he turns to Grim Tongue, "the great Grey Worm vowed to lead you to Naath when the war was done, to defend them from becoming slaves as you once were. I can yet make that dream true as well."

"Maegi!" Grim Tongue spits, pointing his spear. "How do you know such things?" In a flash, Ghost bites down, breaking the wooden staff in half. The Unsullied stumbles backwards.

"Stand down," Malaqo snaps at his companion. "The gods have blessed this boy. Tell me, wolf-prince, what do you know of my khaleesi's dream? And where is Missandei of Naath?"

"I know that your khaleesi promised to find you a new home, Malaqo of the Dothraki Sea. Lady Missandei will be here soon. And when she arrives, together we will find you the home you were promised."

* * *

**Peake Quarters**

Tywin tries to steady his heavy breathing as he enters the rooms afforded to the exiled Peakes of the Golden Company, which their Westerosi cousins have happily since moved into. His uncle's bastard, Ormund, is thankfully at his side. It had been no great challenge to secure his aid. This next step would be the hard part.

The door opens. Ser Daemon Peake is waiting, a short, bald and broad man with a crooked nose. His son, Ser Percy stands beside him, while Laswell and Torman, long-haired and scarred in their gilded armor, lurk in the background with Meraxes Horpe, House Peake's sworn sword. Tywin shivers most at the sight of her steely gaze. Any Horpe eyes in this city may as well be his father's.

"What do you want, boy?" Daemon snaps.

"My father promised to restore House Peake to the power you once held. But the moment Talla Tarly rejected your son's hand, he cast you aside," Tywin hopes he looks confident, because his stomach is in knots. "If you think he will use his position as Hand to restore your lands and castles, then you do not know him. His honor would never deign to extend such a favor. But I am not so bound. I wish to help you restore your family's honor."

"You have more spine than I thought, boy. What, is this, my nephew's plan?" Daemon looks to Percy. "Have we had word from Lord Titus?"

"We have," Percy grins, eerily. "It is a very good plan indeed."

_Why did he say that?_ Tywin thinks. What does he know of this?

"Tell nothing of this to anyone, Horpe!" Daemon points to Meraxes. "Even Lord Harlan. Remember, your first oath is to the Peakes."

"I serve at your command," the towering woman nods.

"Good," Daemon turns back to Tywin. "Now, tell me more of this plan."

* * *

**Asshai**

A hush falls over the market as the boats return down the River Ash, as if the people of the city can feel the power that has returned. Daenerys Targaryen and Euron Greyjoy ride together now with Priestess Kinvarra in the leading boat. They ride past the staring eyes, down to the harbor, where _The Silence_ awaits. Daenerys sees some of them kneel.

_They know who I am, now_, she thinks_. Good._

From the moment they passed back from beneath the shadow, Daenerys could sense him. As they reach the great black ship, she already knows what she will see. Sure enough, the whole crew stands at attention. And at their head, the Codd brothers, Eldred and Lucas, hold a prisoner bound between them. His head is covered, but she knows him all the same. Jon.

"It looks as if the lonely king has flown far from his roost," Moqorro makes the same realization as Lucas drags the prisoner forward.

"Seems my fool mates finally did something useful," Euron sneers. As the captain swaggers forward, Lucas pulls the sack from Jon's face. But as his eyes meet with Daenerys, he opens his mouth to scream.

"No!"

The Ironborn shoves him to the ground and lashes out, slashing across Euron's chest and lunging towards Daenerys. As the man moves, his face melts away and Daenerys realizes to her horror that her attacker is Arya Stark.

Ser Merlon leaps between them, swinging his heavy axe. The blow knocks Arya's sword out of her hands but she is too quick for him to land another blow. She dodges and ducks. Euron meanwhile lashes out and slays the closest Ironborn as Eldred drops to his knees, begging to yield. The slain man falls beside Jon, who grasps at his sword, desperately trying to cut through his bonds.

Daenerys backs away, but she has not drawn her halberd. She cannot fight this girl. She cannot kill her, not in front of Jon. Eres, however, is the next to attack. She is far faster than Merlon, but only lands a glazing blow. Arya kicks hard at the back of her knee and in that moment of pain wrests the sword from the warrior's hands. She drops to the ground as Merlon attacks again and cuts at his ankle. The knight topples forward and she brings down the sword, cleaving half through his thick neck.

"Arya, stop!" She looks up to see Jon standing free, sword in hand. She tries to wrench her own blade loose as the last of Daenerys' Queensguard chokes up dying breaths of blood.

"I didn't ask for you to be here," she answers, plainly, eyes on the others who stand back as Jon walks nearer. Euron moves to strike, but stops at Daenerys' command. "This has to end today. We can do it together."

"You're right," Jon sighs, lowering his blade. "It will end."

Without blinking, he swings at her hand first. Arya darts back. She reaches for the last weapon she has – _Needle_. As the thin rapier is drawn, glistening even beneath this drowsy sky, she sees the recognition in Jon's eyes. But he charges, just the same.

_Needle_ cannot block a heavy cutlass, Arya knows, and so she dances with her brother, stepping in and out, stabbing and shifting, praying with each missed blow that he will stop and see reason. What will she tell him then? That she must murder the woman he loves to appease the God of Death? He would not listen. He could not. And there is no way to Daenerys but through him.

Jon cries out as the thin blade grazes his face, a slender of blood tracing from his slap to his cheek. They stop, breathing heavy. They've reached the river's edge, the black waters rolling tepidly by. He lowers his sword. Arya can see Daenerys over his shoulder. Run fast enough, and this could be over. But not while Jon lives. She looks up into his eyes and tries to imagine him as anyone but her brother. But she cannot. She opens her mouth to speak…

But Jon grabs her first. One hand over mouth, the other arm wrapped firmly around her, his sword is at her throat now.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. There is blood now, from somewhere, and Arya Stark falls back into the river, disappearing beneath the lightless waves.

All eyes are on Jon as he takes several halting steps back away from the water. All but Euron, who, no longer distracted by the fight, turns his eyes back to his crew. Eldred continues to beg for mercy, swearing he did not know of the hidden assasin.

"I no longer have need of The Silence," Euron dismisses his mate and begins to walk away. "Moqorro, burn the ship!" Cries of protest ring out from the crowd of Ironborn.

"Your grace, surely you can't mean that?" Eldred pleads.

"You're right," Euron turns back, smiling. Inky shadows leak out into the white of his one good eye. "If I don't have a ship, I don't need a crew."

He stretches out his arms and one by one, dark shadows begin to peel off of him, blade-handed demons of the dark suffusing from his pores. Eldred lets out a single scream of horror as the creatures let loose upon the men. A roar of fire summoned by Moqorro joins the cacophony of death as the flames wash over the great sails and dark boards of the cursed _Silence._ But none of the chaos fazes Daenerys. She walks away from the inferno to where Jon stands by the river.

"You came back for me."

"I did."

"I'm sorry you had to do that," she looks to the spot in the dark water where Arya had disappeared, and places a comforting hand on Jon's shoulder. He turns to her, straining to maintain a calm, stoic face.

"You were right," he sighs. "It will never end. The betrayals, the oppression, the murder… It's madness. I want it to end. I want to help you end it."

Daenerys runs her hand along Jon's face before kissing him. She feels a spark pass between them. His skin is warm. "Do not fear to cry. We have all lost so much. And I fear we yet have more left to lose. But the time of mourning is almost over."

"I know," he whispers, and kisses her again. "I love you."

"And I have always loved you," she grasps his hand. The other raises the Valyrian horn to her lips. Fire glows in her veins as she blows. And the dragons begin to sing.

* * *

**The Roseroad**

It is a clear winter day as the caravan trundles along the path to the capital. They have only a few days travel left, by Ser Desmond's calculations. Argilac's eyes are always to the horizon, watching for signs of the Risley outriders. The cavalry of House Risley was renowned throughout Westeros, and they had proven their worth against Dothraki once. If the reports were true, and Argilac prayed to the Warrior they were not, they may yet need prove it again.

When the sight of one approaching rider comes over the hill, lurched forward in his saddle, he knows his fears have come true. Lord Peake calls for a halt as the horse draws nearer. Argilac does not know the man in the saddle, but he recognizes the two arrows in his back. The scout is barely alive when he reaches them.

"Dothraki…" he gasps.

"How many?" Peake moves to steady the rider. "Where?"

"I don't know…" the man coughs up blood on the lord's chest and topples to the ground. Argilac draws his sword.

"Circle!" Ser Desmond calls out, turning his horse. "Form defensive lines!"

It is then that Argilac hears them, the thundering hooves of doom. The knights and men at arm begin to form a ring around the wagons and nobles. Argilac notices Ser Gunthor slipping away, back from the front line. But he keeps his own eyes on the horizon. And then they come. He counts a score, two score, maybe more. Most knights told stories of Dothraki warriors in hushed tones around a fire at knight, the name alone was a word to be feared. He can smell the fear on the men behind him. But he is no ordinary knight, he reminds himself. A Horpe of the Kingsguard does not know fear. And as the first shrieking beserker falls within range, he swings true with his sword and red splatters across his white cloak. The first blood of many.

Within the wheelhouse, Lady Rhea begins to scream at the first sounds of battle.

"Calm yourself!" Rhonda snaps, trying to shake sense into her.

Missandei however peers intently through the slatted windows. She knows those battle cries. Dothraki. Her queen's people. Why are they here? Have they returned to their old ways so soon? A crash and another scream. A long arrow has broken another window and pierced Lady Pommingham's chest.

"Let me help!" she shouts, but is drowned out by the cries of the horses, who suddenly jolt forward. There is a crash, a thud against the wall, and then they are falling. The wheelhouse lands on its side and they hear more arrows thudding into its side.

"We're going to die!" Rhea shrieks, scrambling at the crushed door.

"Stay inside!" Missandei shouts, pulling her back down.

Back outside, Argilac has been dismounted. He stares down a huge Dothraki, who lashes out and down with a blood-soaked arakh. His cloak is torn free and Ser Desmond is dead, he knows not where the others are in the chaos of battle around him. A deflects an attack, then another, before the arakh clangs against his armor. He presses that distraction, disemboweling the berserker. He turns, taking in the chaos. It is then that he sees the wheelhouse. And running across the field towards him, Art Hightower, _Vigilance_ in hand, helping his injured father across the field. Lord Peake and Lord Redwyne, still mounted, ride behind them.

"The wheelhouse!" Argilac shouts. Lord Peake sees at once and spurs his horse onwards. Ser Argilac shakes loose his shoulders and follows on foot, sword held high.

On a hill above the road, Tywin watches with Ormund, squinting against the glare of the winter sun. They both wear simple, black Marcher plate and leater, with the purple Dondarrion lightning bolt across their chests.

"Are we winning?" he asks.

"It is hard to say, my lord."

"I should be there," Tywin suddenly stiffens in the saddle. "This is my battle. I am here to put down these rebels, not Percy. Not the Dothraki. Me!" Ormund tries to stop the lad, but he kicks hard and his horse charges down the hill into battle, its rider shaking wildly in battle. As he desperately tries to regain control of the reigns, he sees a white knight in his path. _Meraxes? No. Oh, no._ He recognizes the armor of the Kingsguard. _Argilac._ The blunt end of a stolen spear takes him hard in the chest and he flies back, crashing to the earth. As his horse careers on, he panics, rolling away as Argilac plants the pointed end in the earth where his head was just a moment ago. He struggles to free his heavy sword from its sheath. And then Ormund is between them.

The bastard knight's charging lance strikes a glancing blow on Argilac's armor, leaving a dent and sending him spinning. He turns around for a second charge. Argilac, shaking his head clear, runs towards Tywin who turns only to see a charging Dothraki. He suddenly realizes that in the heat of the battle, the warriors he led to plunder here will have no second thoughts about killing him. He turns to run, but on the other side is Argilac, sword back in hand.

Moments before the knight strikes, Ormund leaps down from his horse mid-charge, narrowly missing with his spear. He plants himself firmly between his lordling and the attacking knight. But Argilac swings his sword, each blow heavier than the last. The wood of the spear chips and splinters as Ormund blocks each attack. He looks back as if beggin Tywin to do something, anything, but, terrified, Tywin only yells "Stop him!"

And then the spear breaks. Desperate, Ormund lashes out with both ends. One side skitters off steel, the other lodges in Argilac's shoulder. And then the knight's sword is between his ribs. He falls. His guardian slain, Tywin has no time to grieve. He runs in blind panic, but does not get far. The passing boot of a rider strikes his head and everything goes black.

Back within the wheelhouse, Rhonda struggles to calm Rhea and Hela while Missandei desperately tries to stop Lady Pommingham's bleeding when a pounding comes at the door. Slowly, it is wrenched free and a knight with black mail and orange surcoat appears. He pulls his helm free to reveal his face.

"Percy!" Talla shouts with recognition. She takes the Peake knight's hand and is hoisted up and out of the toppled carriage. Desmera Redwyne is next. Talla gasps at the sight of the carnage around her as Percy helps her down. Meraxes Horpe is waiting by their side. She can hear Rhea screaming to be let out.

"We need to get them free," she urges Percy.

"No," he shakes his head and draws his sword. "I think they'll be safer in there." Talla screams and pulls Desmera back as her former suitor lashes. "You really should have said yes," he sneers. Overwhelmed, Desmera faints. Talla tries to catch her, but there is nowhere to run. Only battle. She tries to pull them both beneath the ruined carriage, but stops when she finds Daeron Horpe's bloody corpse. Percy charges.

"Talla, get down!" She hits the ground as Hobber Redwyne's horses pounds past. His maimed right arm catches Percy's blade, stopping his attack but pulling the lord to the ground with a crash. Percy wrenches his sword free and kicks the crippled lord in the face. "You should have stayed out of the way. Now I have to kill you too!"

"Percy, stop!" He turns to see Lord Titus Peake has arrived. Sword in hand, Titus leaps down from his horse, his own orange surcoat and black armor spattered with blood. "What in the seven hells are you doing?"

"I'm getting us our castles back! Stand aside!"

Titus grabs his cousin's arm. "Don't take another step. This will accomplish nothing."

"Are you really so blind?" Percy pulls away, shouting over the roar of the battle. "We can end it all here! All our rivals, everyone who took from us!"

"So this was your plan?" Titus steps between Percy and his intended victims. He points his sword at his chest. "Who knows of this? Who?"

Percy does not answer, and Titus suddenly grabs him, slamming his face against the edge of the wheelhouse. "Tell me or die, fool!" By the time he is done, Percy's face is a bleeding mess. He desperately turns to Meraxes for help.

"Defend me! You serve the Peakes!"

"I serve Lord Peake," she answers coldly.

Percy slowly turns back to face his cousin and spits bloody bile at his feet. "Have you forgotten our words? We Take What Is Ours! What kind of a Peake are you?" Titus wipes blood and sweat from his face, frightfully stoic.

"Tell me who knows of your role in this?"

"He won't tell you, but I reckon this one will!" They turn to see Argilac, white armor covered in blood, dragging a cowering Tywin Dondarrion to drop at their feet. Titus turns back to Percy, shaking his head.

"This one? Really? You'd bet our House's fortunes with him?"

"Go on then!" Percy shouts. "If you're going to throw away our future, you might as well kill me! Kinslayer!"

"No. I cannot kill you," Titus puts Percy's sword back in his hand and turns him toward Argilac. "But he can. Go ahead, if you're a real Peake, prove it. Strike him down and do what you will with the others."

Percy looks nervously to Meraxes, who shakes her head. And with a cry, he charges. He lands two blows, easily parried, before turning to attack again. And as he does, Argilac, without blinking, takes a knee and opens the knight's side with his blade. Percy's body drops atop Tywin, still prostrate on the ground, his blood spilling over the cowering lad.

That is the sight that Talla sees when she finally opens her eyes, lying between Hobber and Desmera Redwyne. The sounds of battle have begun to die out. And soon, they are replaced with the trumpets of elephants.


	45. The Living and The Dead

**The River Ash**

Cold. So cold.

When Jon let her go, it was as if her soul left her body. As she passed beneath the river's surface, she felt the world leave her behind. No light penetrated these depths, only the darkest of dark. She had flailed about but there was no way to tell which way was up and which was down. She swam desperately, but only pushed herself deeper and deeper into the abyss. _Surely the river cannot be so deep? Surely there must be an end?_

There were things in the water. No, 'things' was not right. These were not things. They were ideas. Living ideas. Death. Decay. Shadows of an even darker black. And they pulled her further down. _They were dancing_, she thought. Dancing shadows spinning her through the water as her body went limp. She opened her mouth to scream and the water came in.

And then Arya Stark's eyes open once again. She gasps for air, her mouth still tasting of salt and death, and slowly her bearings come. She is dry. She is naked. And she is not where she ought to be. Through blurred vision, she can see Jaquen is looking down at her. And though she knows she is awake, the cold does not go away. She remembers that Jon had cut her shoulder. But there is no pain there. There is, however, pain in her sides, her spine… and her heart. Something is there, something that does not belong.

"What did you do to me?" she gasps, voice escaping in a puff of frozen air up to Jaquen.

"A girl should have learned in Braavos, she cannot escape the Many-Faced God so easily," he smiles that taunting smile. "A girl will not be granted the gift until the debt is paid."

* * *

**Asshai**

The hulk of _The Silence_ is still smoldering in the harbor as _The Frosted Fury_ arrives. The dead bodies of the crew litter the dock, many already stripped and looted down to bare skin.

"It looks like someone already got to Euron," Ser Myles observes as they disembark, treading cautiously to the scene of the massacre. "Do you think he's dead?"

"You see him here?" Sandor kicks over a corpse. "If there ain't no body, I won't be wagering we're done with him yet."

As the others examine the casualties, looking for signs of Euron or Daenerys, Gendry sidles up next to Sandor.

"Do you think she did this?" he whispers.

"Could be," Sandor kneels to examine the wounds on Eldred Codd's body. "That wolf pup of yours is a savage one. But I never seen a weapon to leave marks like this."

"Over here!" Garin calls. "A live one!" He and Myles have drug a water-logged figure out from hiding beneath the dock. As they toss him to the ground, it is clear he is only a young lad, younger even then Arya. Sam urges them to put away their swords and crouches down to examine the captive.

"Hello there," he smiles, awkwardly. "I'm Samwell Tarly. You can call me Sam."

"I'm…" the clearly terrified lad is hesitant. "I'm Gyles Farwynd. I swear, I weren't here when it happened! I didn't take anything! I tried to stop the thieves, but they cut me!" He holds up a bloody, clotted palm.

"My friends are very good healers, Gyles. We can help you. But first, do you have any idea what happened here?"

"They say Euron killed his own crew! They say he has an army of shadows!"

"And where is Euron now?" Sam asks.

"He left with the others. On the dragons."

"Dragons?" Sam looks up at the others, nervously.

"The boy said dragons," Sandor emphasizes the plural. "That means more'n one."

"Are you sure?" Sam asks again.

"He's right." They all turn to see a girl in a tattered grey robe, flanked by three figures in matching cloaks. She lowers her hood, but Gendry has already recognized her voice. He rushes to her, disregarding her ominous companions and lifts her into the air in a crushing bear hug. He lets loose a cry of pure joy but as he sets her back down, he steps away chilled, as if he has felt something different. But that same dumb smile returns soon enough.

"We've gone to a lot of trouble to find you, cub," Sandor growls, though his gruff exterior cannot hide his own pleasure at the reunion. "What shit have you gotten yourself into?"

Arya does not answer. She only walks past them. "You have a good boat. We have to go. My companions already have the supplies we'll need."

"Go?" Gendry runs after her. "Go where?"

"To save the world."

* * *

**Above the Narrow Sea**

High above the waves, the world below looks so small and insignificant. Here, clinging to Rhaegal's back, Jon feels as alive as he did the first day he flew, so long ago. Beside him, Euron and Moqorro cling to the back of a pale red dragon. He can see from here that the Ironborn king is barely holding on. The skies are not meant for the likes of Euron. They belong to Jon. And her.

He looks ahead of him, where Daenerys rides with Kinvara and Eres on the back of the great shadow-black dragon she calls Lightbringer, a beast that dwarfs Rhaegal, larger even than Drogon ever grew. Her short white hair flows like silk in the wind, the high noon sun glistening off of it. Jon breathes deeply. He can smell it, taste it. This is the freedom he had longed for. The Wall, the Iron Throne, Westeros, the feuding lords and the betrayal, all left behind. They had melted away like so much ice and he had come away a new man. A true man. Jon Snow and Aemon Targaryen are dead.

All that is left is him, Daenerys, the dragons and the sky.

* * *

**The Red Keep**

A pair of servants help fit young Lord Robert Brax into proper clothes once more, a simple doublet matching the purple and silver of his House. His hair has been cut and face cleaned, but the mark of the burning heart remains scalded to his scalp. He walks out of his privy to face those awaiting him – King Griffin Blackfyre, Lord Harlan Dondarrion, Lord Tybolt Crakehall and Bran Stark.

"You look well, m'lord!" big, bearded Tybolt bellows, hoping to cheer the silent lordling. He is the only face here the young man knows. But it stirs no reaction.

"I've hoped to speak to you, Lord Brax, on the matter of dominion in the Westerlands," Grif offers.

Finally, Robert speaks, his voice cracked and aged far beyond his years. "The titles my uncle and father were given brought nothing but grief and destruction upon my family. I do not want them. Return them to The Rock, or to Crakehall. But not to me."

"Very well then," Grif nods amicably, adding, beneath his breath, "That was easy."

"Lord Tyrion will rule from The Rock now, is that correct? My father always thought he was clever. But in the end he brought the dragons to our lands."

"Lord Tyrion did not burn Hornvale, Robert," Bran urges caution. "He is as grieved for your loss as are all of us."

"He need not fear me," Robert sighs, breaths still heavy. "Let him have what he wants. I wish to go home." Seeing the king is satisfied, he moves to leave and Tybolt follows him out. But he stops at the door. "Is she dead?"

"Who?" Grif is confused.

"Daenerys Targaryen. Is she dead? Have her banners been shredded? Have her red priests been torn down and given over to their own flames?"

"No, Lord Brax, she fled after the Trial of Seven," Lord Dondarrion informs him.

"Then you must hunt her down!" Robert points at the king, then to the brand on his face. The numbing panic has returned to his eyes. "I saw her future in the fire, your grace. You must find her, wherever she has hidden, and you must kill her. Or else she will sweep over this land and leave nothing but ashes!"

With that, the Westerners are gone.

"I fear he's right, your grace," Bran muses.

"About Daenerys?" Harlan is not convinced. "She is gone, reports from across the Narrow Sea say they worship her as a god in the Disputed Lands. She will not trouble us again."

"But she will," Bran insists. "The power of R'Hllor will not be content in Essos. It will lay claim to all the lands of man."

"You talk like my nursemaid," Grif laughs. "I value your counsel, Lord Stark, but do not waste my time with the gods of shadow and their armies a world away. I have my own kingdom to run. My duties are here!" He pounds his fist on the chair. "Now!"

Harlan nods approval, but Bran wheels closer until his face is only inches away from the king.

"Your grace, you were not here when the dead rose and the Wall fell and we stood against the White Walkers. You did not see the doom we faced then, the dark powers. But you see me. You cannot deny that magic has awakened in our world. Ancient forces have stirred that could destroy us all. I beg you, turn your eyes to the East. Or else we may all be blinded by an unyielding fire."

* * *

**The Maidenvault**

"Tywin!" Harlan shouts for his son as he returns to his quarters. He hears no answer. "Children, come!" he calls with a sharp whistle. There is a rushing of small feet and the rest of his issue stand before him in various states of disarray:

Somber Alysenth, a slender and quiet girl of 15; Defiant Elenei, 12, with an acidic wit; and uncontrollable Barristan, 9, a gilded pot on his helm for a helmet. They stand at attention before their father like soldiers on parade, until Little Sam Flowers comes crashing into the room, Gilly waddling in pursuit behind him.

"I'm sorry, m'lord," she scoops up her son.

"Don't be. I need to speak with you all." He waits until he is sure all are listening. "Were is your brother? Where is Tywin? I have not seen him for days now."

"I bet he got lost on his way to the privy," Elenei sneers. "You'll probably find him hiding in a corner with piss on his trousers."

"Show some respect to your brother!" Harlan snaps his finger at her. "One day he will be the lord of this House!" He looks to the others for answers, but only gets blank stares from the other children. Gilly, however, beckons him aside, and he dismisses the others.

"I saw him leave," she whispers. "I would have said… but my place…"

"Where?" Where did he go?"

"He was with Ser Percy and Lady Meraxes. They said something about Dothraki."

"The fool boy!" Harlan throws up his hands. "Here we are, on the eve of his singular purpose, and he decides to play a hero. Say nothing of this to anyone. I must speak to the guards!"

* * *

**Stark Quarters**

Wynafryd Manderly leans forward over the table as she somberly discovers that her flagon of wine is quite empty. She looks up, face flushed red, to Edric Dayne, who sits across from her, strumming his lyre.

"Would you like to get more wine?" she asks him.

"More?" he laughs. "I never got any the first time!"

"Where'd it go?"

"You drank it all!"

"Fine," Wynafryd rises, hiccuping. "I'll get it myself." She takes a few shaking steps before tripping over her own feet and toppling forward.

"Are you alright, m'lady?" He eases her back into her seat. "Are you nervous about the wedding?"

"Nervous? About the wedding?" she slurs. "I'm nervous there won't be a wedding. And I'm no lady, neither, not 'til the wedding, if there is one. My dearly beloved father saw to that, may the Seven bless him."

"What do you mean, no wedding?" Edric is confused.

"You know Tywin worshipped King Robert? Oh, he loved him, loved all the stories. He met the king several times. And you know what? Robert laughed at him! But Tywin was sold, all the way. Do you know what it is to 'Make the Eight'?"

"No," Edric shakes his head diligently, but his blush answers otherwise.

"A lover from every kingdom…" For a moment, Wynafryd forgets the flagon is empty, and is deeply disappointed to rediscover that fact. "Robert did it. And they wrote songs about it. Tywin would sing them, when his father couldn't hear. And you know what?" She pulls Edric so close all he can see are her bloodshot sea-green eyes and smell the wine on her breath. "I did it, too. So many ships, come to White Harbor it wasn't hard. I would sneak out, find a man to my liking and be back in my room before anyone was the wiser. None of them ever knew they'd fucked a lady."

"Tywin was my Stormlander. He completed the set," she lets Edric go and leans back in her chair, suddenly deeply sad. "Making the eight. But they don't write songs for the women. We're just whores to them."

"Perhaps you should get some sleep?" Edric helps her to her feet with one arm and grabs his lyre with the other. Together, they slouch down the halls to her room. Once inside, Wynafryd quickly pulls herself out of her gown and collapses naked into bed. Edric, trying not to look, covers her with a blanket. He sits in a near chair and begins to strum again.

"Who taught you how to play that stupid thing?" she asks as she fades off to sleep.

"His name was Tom…" Edric thinks back to his time with Lord Beric. "I wonder if he's still alive…" The young lord plays a tune, soft and sweet, that drifts up to Sansa Stark and Mycah Manderly, as they recline on the manse's roof, beneath the vast, clear night sky.

"You found a singer?" Mycah smiles. "In these ruins?"

"I think it's that Dayne boy," Sansa sighs, sleepily. "They say he was named for my father. People used to think his aunt was Jon's mother."

"Wouldn't that make things simpler?" Mycah muses.

"I fear life was not made to be simple," Sansa looks up at the stars. "But when I'm out here, it seems a little more so. Tell me more of the constellations."

Mycah surveys the skies for the markings by which he learned to sail at night. He finds one quickly enough and guides Sansa's hand to point to it.

"That's the Ice Dragon. If you follow its tail, it takes you south. But if you follow the eye," he stops their fingers on a brightly glimmering blue star. "It will always guide you north." He rolls over to look at her face as she takes it in.

"I never listened when my septa talked about the stars…" she murmurs. "It's beautiful."

"Do you know where else I've seen an eye like that?"

"Where?" She rolls over to face him now, her own deep blue eyes looking into his.

"On you. Your eyes sparkle like the ice dragon. They are the blue of winter, of snow and sky. And they will always point north, to your home. I want my home to be there, too." He pauses and grasps her hands tightly. They are warm, even in the night air. "All this talk of weddings and betrothals. I wanted to wait until we returned, but… Would you give me your hand?"

He barely gets to finish the questions as she stops his mouth with a kiss, her lips shaping the answer.

_Yes._

* * *

**The Ruins**

Tyrion Lannister watches with pride as a group of workers toil on clearing rubble in the early hours of the morning, frost still resting on the cracked roads. Tugging on a rig of pulleys, the team hoists a great piece of scorched, shattered stone into the air, the largest obstacle remaining in a clearing that had taken them over a week. As the stone lands on a trolley to be carted away, Tyrion's mind fills with grand visions for the new city that will rise from these ashes. These salvaged rocks from the Red Keep would be used first to found new shelter for the people. And far bigger schemes lay to the future. Schemes with no funds. But as stability returns, perhaps he may yet live to see them.

Scrawling a praise of thanks to the workers in chalk upon his slate, he turns and waddles his way back to his study in the sick ward. By the time he returns, his chest feels ready to burst from the exertion of so many damned stairs. He finds his partner in this work, Mallora Hightower, being tormented by the complaints of her brother Humfrey.

"And Baelor expects me to wed some Tyrell girl of a cadet branch, a decade my younger!" the pale-skinned sailor bemoans.

"Then you'd best find yourself some clean clothes and leave me be! You'll be a busy man, if you're to be presentable for your wedding!" Mallora shoes him away and clears space for Tyrion. He pours a mug of water, ever careful not to choke without his tongue to aide in the swallow.

"Never mind that one. He's never content to follow orders. Gunthor and Lynesse are the same. My father's third wife passed on the most troublesome behavior. I don't know why they can't act respectable, like me!" She laughs pointing to her stained grey robes and knotted hair. Tyrion chuckles along, though it is more of a wheeze.

"Lord Tyrion, Lady Mallora," he hears from outside. He knows that voice. Sansa Stark. She steps in with the Manderly boy and two other guards he does not know. "Good morning. I hoped you had news on our plague problem."

"We still know not what it is, nor how to treat it," Mallora's mood sours. "But I think we've been able to contain it."

"Good," Sansa nods. "King Griffin insists on hosting half the lords of Westeros for these weddings. We cannot let it spread back to their homes when they leave." Tyrion smiles to hear her talk of plans and policy. The scared little bird forced to wed him so long ago had spread her wings and become a wolf. "My own uncle is expected today from the Riverlands."

But as she speaks, the horns of alarm sound from the walls. And not from the north.

* * *

**The King's Road**

The flapping banner of a trout on red and blue stripes wriggles in the wind as a small procession treks diligently towards the walls of the city. Behind it come weirwood trees, crimson horses, black frogs and purple eagles. At the head, beneath the trout, rides Edmure Tully, grimacing as the cold bites even through the heavy furs over his dark-red riding jerkin.

They find the city gate fallen, and much of the wall destroyed.

"By the gods," Brynden Blackwood murmurs. "It really is gone."

"Not all of it, I should hope," Edmure shivers. "Were we not expected. Why is no one here?" He rides on through the ruins until he finds a sign of life – a beggar in his path. "You there! What has happened?"

"Don't you know, oh great lord?" the peasant grins through rotted teeth and bows in mock courtesy. "There was a little trouble with a dragon…"

"I am the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands!" Edmure tries to maintain composure. "Where is the king? Where is the court? Are they at some other gate?"

"There was a disturbance m'lord," the beggar laughs before scurrying away. "You came to the wrong side of the city! They say the Lord of Oldtown's just arrived!"

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

Lord Baelor Hightower, his wounds tightly bound, is carried on a makeshift litter, closely guarded by his son Art, wife Rhonda, brother Gunthor and Lords Alek Florent and Titus Peake. Missandei follows close behind with Ser Argilac, his white armor still dented and splattered with dried blood. She thanks her god of harmony that Baelor's wounds have not yet festered. Lady Pommingham had not been so lucky.

General Harry Strickland leads the procession, his gilded companions dragging along their prisoners, a handful of captured Dothraki and one bruised and bloodied Tywin Lannister. Missandei sees the lad's father standing in the place by the throne she once held. And she notes the look of shock, horror and bewilderment when he sees his son in chains.

"All rise for his grace, King Griffin Blackfyre, First of His Name, The Gilded Dragon, King of East and the West and the Narrow Sea!" Rolly Duckfield declares as Grif strides in to take his place on the throne.

"King Griffin?" Baelor mumbles in his heavily sedated state. "Blackfyre? Who is this man?" Rhonda stills his confused tongue, promising an explanation later.

_He looks more a king than Jon ever did,_ Missandei must admit.

"What has happened here, general?" Grif demands answers as Harlan struggles to stay silent. "You hold the son of my Lord Hand captive."

Missandei steps forward before Strickland can answer. "On the road to the capital, we were set upon by a band of Dothraki. Many men were slain, including Ser Desmond Redwyne and Lady Pommingham. We found Tywin Dondarrion among their ranks. They were led by Ser Percival Peake. We believe they conspired to murder Lord Baelor Hightower, along with Lady Talla Tarly and Desmera Redwyne."

At the sound of her accusation, mayhem breaks out in court. Harlan's cool patience finally snaps, though she cannot tell what he is yelling. Ser Daemon Peake has charged the floor and is restrained by the guards. Baelor, overwhelmed by the clamor, clutches his head in pain. Finally, Grif stands.

"Silence! Clear the court! I will have order! Take our guests to proper accommodations! But not her!" He points at Missandei. Argilac steps forward, hand on his sword. "General Strickland, hold her until I may speak with my council. Do not let her out of your sight!"

* * *

**The Disputed Lands**

The dragons loom down beneath the clouds and out over the sprawling, desolate plains. The camp beneath them stretches for miles into the distance, more men in one place than Jon has ever seen. Than even Daenerys has ever seen. The camp burns with a thousand fires and above it all rises a huge, imposing stone temple topped with the largest flames at all. The armies surround it now. Daenerys knows, they are waiting for her. As they dip closer, she can hear their voices, echoing up in cheers and chants. They are calling her name –"Daenerys!" "Azor Ahai!" – Both her names now, one and the same. She can feel the fiery power in her veins burn ever hotter the closer they come.

With a thundering roar, Lightbringer crashes down atop the fiery temple and the shouts of the vast crowds below reaches a deafening, thunderous chorus. Daenerys slides down from her mount as the other dragons begin to land atop the temple. A single man in armor awaits her. It takes a moment to recognize him as he kneels.

"Daario!"

"I served at your command, your grace. When you left, I knew not what your true destiny was. But the power of R'Hllor has washed over Essos. I am humbled now to stand at your side, Daenerys Stormborn, Azor Ahai, Bringer of Light." He rises and guides her to the edge of the temple, looking down the great stair to the mob below. "I give to you, the Army of the Dawn."

Beneath her thousands upon thousands of weapons rise in tribute as Jon and Euron take their place beside her. She breathes in deeply. The air tastes of salt and smoke, fire and blood. And victory.

* * *

**The Small Council Chamber**

"That Horpe knight from Aemon's kingsguard, he found the lad on the field and captured him," General Strickland reports. "Lord Peake reported as much when I found them."

"And it was this same Ser Argilac who slew Ser Percival?" Harlan asks.

"Indeed," Strickland nods. "Again, according to Lord Peake."

"And can Lord Peake be trusted?" Grif asks. "His own cousin and heir led this attack. Tywin Dondarrion swears the whole affair was the scheme of the Peakes."

"In my experience, Lord Titus is an honorable man," Harlan vows.

"You defend him, but why should I trust your words?" Grif rises, betraying an irritation he has hidden until now. "You, whose own son was there, attacking my allies! Do you expect me to believe you knew nothing of this? Either you are a traitor, or you have lost control of your household. How can a man who cannot control his children control my kingdom?"

Harlan is taken aback. His hand nervously flits to the golden Hand's pin on his chest. Grif matches his eyes, sternly, and places a commanding finger on the table. Silently, Harlan undoes the pin and lies it down, his dark eyes concealing his emotion. Without another word, he turns and leaves, heavy footsteps echoing as he goes.

"The rest of you, too, out!" Grif dismisses his council, save Bran, who he holds behind. "You. You are supposed to warn me of things like this."

"Your grace, I apologize. I must know where to look. I did not suspect anything of Tywin or the Peakes."

"Then you should get better!" Grif snaps. Bran nearly tells him that is not how his powers work, but thinks better of it as the king composes himself. "I am sorry. Please, consult your gods and your trees. I need to know the truth of this matter, beyond the shadow of a doubt."

"I will," Bran nods respectfully before wheeling himself out. Seeing him go, Grif brushes his hair back behind his ears and straightens his crown before calling to the guards.

"Send in the woman!"

At the command, the doors swing open once more. Missandei steps into the room. Argilac tries to follow but is held back by the guards at the door. Missandei assures him she will be fine, and the doors close again. Grif beckons her to take a seat and she does, carefully sitting directly across from the new king. For a moment, they sit silently, each examining the other. _He must have the blood of the dragon for certain_, Missandei thinks. _His face reminds her so of Daenerys. And she misses her queen again_. Finally, she speaks.

"Do you wish to hear my story of the attack? I fear I did not see much, I was trapped within the wheelhouse for most of the battle."

"No, that is not why I'm here. I want to talk to you about Lord Baelor. And Highgarden."

"What do you know?"

"Most everything, in fact, thanks to Lord Stark," Grif smiles. "As you know, I was raised in Essos. I know of these forms of governing. I, too, have considered how they might be applied here. Your work in Highgarden shows promise. If, that is, you can keep the peace."

"I sense you wish for an exchange of favors," Missandei leans in and Grif matches her.

"I will endorse this experiment of yours and defend it with the full power of the crown. I will grant you noble titles and lands. Anything you wish. So long as Lord Baelor pledges the Reach to me."

* * *

**The Black Cells**

The slamming of the cell door was the last thing Tywin heard for hours. Maybe a day or more, he cannot say. Trapped in this cell, every minute feels like an eternity. He had hoped Wynafryd would come, that she would plead mercy for him. But he had pushed her away, in the end. Edric had not come, either. The Dornish lord had tried to be his friend. But Tywin had rejected him, resenting how his father saw in Edric what he always wanted from Tywin. _Why couldn't he have just had a little trust?_ At last comes the sound he has both dreaded and awaited from the moment the guards first locked him away: His father's arrival.

"Are they going to let me go?" he asks, eagerly.

"I just heard from Meraxes. Ormund Storm is dead," Harlan bluntly declines to acknowledge the question. "Why did you drag him into this fool scheme?"

"Ormund?" Tywin is taken aback. "What do you care? You hated him! You said he was a disgrace to the family!"

"He was. But that did not mean I hated him. He was all that was left in this world of my brother. And now Beric is truly gone."

"You hated Beric, too!"

"Is life truly so simple in your eyes, boy?" Harlan shouts. And in a brief flicker of light across his face, Tywin sees something he has never seen there. A tear. "Have I failed so badly to teach you? Perhaps I did not deserve the Hand after all. I have failed…"

"But can you free me?"

"What is it?" The moment of tenderness is gone. "Are you some noble son who took up arms to prove the valor of your house, or are you a cowering boy who seeks rescue rather than face the consequences of his actions?"

"I… I…" Tywin stammers.

"I thought not. But even if I wished to cast aside my honor to save you, I no longer have the authority, thanks to you. Dwell on that. The next time you see me, you will be facing the king."

* * *

**Stark Quarters**

"You had no right!" Edmure Tully slams his fist into the wall as he furiously paces the floor in a rage. "You made yourself a queen and sold off my lands!"

"I had every right," Sansa rises fiercely from the table where she has watched her uncle's tirade. "I am the Lady of Winterfell. I did what was right for my people and to honor my family."

"I am your family! Or have you forgotten? My men fought and died for Robb too! Where is our freedom? Where is my crown?"

"You are free to ask King Griffin for a crown, uncle, as I did," Sansa says diplomatically, pouring him a glass he refuses. She looks to young Lord Blackwood and Lady Bracken in the corner. "But the North cannot protect you, nor will the Vale, I doubt. Winter is not yet over. Do your people truly want freedom, Edmure? Or do they want security?"

Without an answer, Edmure looks to his bannermen. They shake their heads, silently. He turns back to Sansa, his indignation faltering.

"Let me take council. We will speak on this matter again." He moves to leave but turns back again. "And I wish you well, your grace. On your betrothal."

"Thank you uncle." Sansa sees the riverlords out before helping herself to the wine meant for Edmure and a hefty fruit tart purloined from the kitchen. Sighing, she sinks deeply into a soft chair when Mycah returns, his cousin with him.

"Your grace," Wynafryd curtsies. "I fear, in light of my betrothed's crimes, our marriage will never be. He has failed his king, his family and me. But there is still sympathy for him in my heart. He wants to be good. He wants honor. By our shared spirit as daughters of the North, I must ask a final request... "

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

Mya Baratheon strides into the great hall, surrounded by all manner of lords and ladies, and prays that her nervousness is not visible. Her plan had worked, to a point. House Dondarrion has fallen from grace. But so long as Tywin remains alive, her own head is in danger. Ser Percy had been cocky. He wasn't supposed to join the fight, but let Tywin get killed and return with no one the wiser. But now Percy is dead, and Tywin is here, dragged before the throne in chains.

"Tywin Dondarrion," declares Master of Law Franklyn Fowler. "You stand accused of high treason and the attempted murder of, among others, Lady Talla Tarly and Lady Desmera Redwyne. The facts seem clear in this matter. You have made no denials of your role. The only matter to be determined is your punishment. You had, under questioning, raised the matter of conspiracy. Lord Brandon Stark, his grace King Griffin's Master of Whisperers, will speak to that matter."

Mya watches tensely as Bran rolls forward to speak. "This much is true. Ser Daemon Peake did assist his late son and Tywin in their scheme, believing it to be a command of his nephew, Lord Titus Peake. However, Lord Peake knew nothing of such an arrangement." A wave of hushed voices washed over the court.

"It was Lady Baratheon!" Tywin scrambles to his feet only to be shoved back to his knees by Strickland. Mya tries to shrink into the background as all eyes turn towards her. But as she backs away, she sees Bran looking directly at her, and freezes.

"First you blame the Peakes, now the Baratheons?" Stickland is bellowing. "Have some respect, boy. You made your bed. Lie in it."

"Lord Stark, do you have cause to suspect Lady Baratheon?" Grif asks.

For a moment, Bran hesitates before answering. "Tywin Dondarrion and Percival Peake made their own choice. They hold their own responsibilities."

"And one has already fallen by the sword." Grif rises as Mya conceals a sigh of relief. "Such is the fate for traitors." Strickland hands _Blackfyre_ to the king as he descends to the floor. "A wise man has taught me that he who issues the sentence should swing the sword. Do you have any final words, Tywin of House Dondarrion?"

Tywin says nothing, only looking first to his father, then to Wynafryd. Both are unyielding, until…

"Your grace!" Sansa steps forward. "Perhaps the traitor would join the Night's Watch?"

"The Wall is gone…" Grif hesitates.

"The Wall is gone, but the land beyond it remains, savage and ungoverned. We will always need a Night's Watch. We will always need a place for cripples, bastards and broken things." She looks down at Tywin with a mix of pity and disdain. "A place where honor may be redeemed from even the lowest of men."

Grif rests for the moment, the razor-edge of his ancient sword hovering above the accused's neck. His crown slips slightly down his brow. Finally, he nods.

"What say you?" he asks, stepping back.

"I take it," Tywin gasps. "I take the Black!" The commotion that follows does not stop until Tywin is led away once again and the king has departed with Sansa, dismissing the court. But Mya knows that something is not right. As the nobles file out of the hall, she spies Bran rolling away.

"You," she blocks the wheelchair's path. From behind, the boy's guards notice her and begin to rush to his side. Quickly, she kneels to look in his eyes. "What did you see?"

"I know what you did," Bran speaks coldly. "Now release me."

"You did not tell the king, but you knew. Why? What do you want from me?"

"Our fathers were dear friends once. If your brother does not return from the east, you are the last of Robert's line. I have spared you for his sake. Do not throw this chance away."

Theon and Obara have reached them now, weapons in hand. Hands raised, Mya backs away, apologetically. But as Bran wheels away, he steals a final steely glare at her and whispers.

"Act quickly to secure yourself. My lips are sealed. But Lord Dondarrion already suspects. You've entered a dangerous game. I would learn to sleep with my eyes open if I were you."

* * *

**Stark Quarters**

Bran rests in the yard, back pressed against Ghost, rising and sinking with the deep breaths of the sleeping direwolf. Meera reclines beside him.

"I heard your sister is to wed the Manderly boy," she mentions.

"I know."

"I know you know, I just like to tell you things every now and then." They sit here like this for a while, only breathing in the warmth of each other's company and searching the sky above for a glimpse of a flickering star that crosses the night. Meera leans over to see Bran's face, and is surprised to find him sad.

"The fighting isn't over, is it?" she asks quietly.

"No," he whispers, and softly takes her hand. "I think it's only just begun."

* * *

**The Disputed Lands**

There is a tent atop the temple, striped red-and-orange, warmed with a dozen braziers. As the sun sets over the sea to the west, night has already fallen on the army camps below. But even now the fires burn and the soft sound of chants to the Lord of Light rise up to the eyes and ears of those standing above it all. Jon stands at the edge of the heavy stone, looking down. _They're all here for her_, he thinks. _Just like me_.

"You're not like them," he hears her voice behind him. He turns, and Daenerys stands in a loose robe the colors of her tent, radiant in her beauty. She has heard his thoughts, he can tell. But she presses close to him and runs her fingers through his hair. He had nearly forgotten how good it felt. "You are not a soldier, Jon. You stand beside me. You share my dream."

He leans in to kiss her, but then the memories return - His love in chains, her armies burning, the fury in her eyes at the trial. And the feeling of Arianne's body, the night she came to his bed. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I failed you."

"You did. But you returned. You've seen the truth in the light." Slowly, she pulls him with her back within the tent. Inside, it's sweltering from the fires. The heat seems to burn away his failure. Heavy bands of sweat begin to drip down his brow as he tugs at his collar.

"Forget the princess. It is as if it never happened," Daenerys turns, noting his discomfort. "You'd best become accustomed to the heat Jon. You're in the fire now."

And then he is running to her, his hands on her body and hers on his own, their lips meet, their eyes close and her robe and his heavy clothes fall away. _She is right. It is as if they were never apart. As it was meant to be._

Outside the tent, Daario watches the entrance with stern but sad eyes.

"You thought she was coming back for you?" Euron sneers. "Didn't expect her need for a whining bastard in her life?" He laughs and takes a swig of Nightshade, but Daario remains unmoved. Splashing some of the blue wine in the guard's face, Euron stumbles cackling away, propping himself up against one of the firepots. The flesh of his hand sizzles on contact, but he does not seem to notice as he pisses over the edge of the temple.

"Do not fear, your grace," Moqorro says as he appears out of the shadow to stand beside the king. "Your time will come. Our new world is born of salt and smoke, not fire and ice."

"What do I have to fear?" Euron grins. "I have real power. What does the Northern boy have? A pretty face and a small cock, I wager. You stick with me old man. I still have dues left to collect from this world."

* * *

**Stark Quarters**

In his dreams, Bran is back at Winterfell, running through the godswood with Summer and Hodor. He stops as he reaches the Heart Tree. Father is there, sitting beneath the crimson leaves, cleaning his sword beside the pool. But there is something wrong, Bran sees. The sword is not Ice. It is a cutlass, dripping with blood. And as he rises and turns to face Bran, he sees it isn't father at all. It is a wild-haired madman with one eye black as shadow and the other a flaming rock. And in an instant, Bran feels as if his power has slipped away. He is just a scared little boy again. And the monster has crawled out from beneath his bed.

"Brandon Stark," Euron Greyjoy sneers. Bran wants to flee, but knows he cannot. "So this is who the Raven decided was worthy? A boy?" He snaps his fingers and Bran's legs get out. He collapses, feeling pain as if his back has shattered all over again. "A crippled boy? And he thought I was a failure! You got the old man killed, destroyed the White Walkers and abandoned the Children of the Forest! I'm honestly impressed."

Euron kneels, his knee atop Bran's chest, crushing his lungs. "Bloodraven thought I would open the door to the Long Night. But you? You opened the door to something far, far worse." As Bran looks up in terror, Euron's face begins to burn and the pirate begins to multiply, shadowy forms of himself peeling off from him as he dumps a choking blue liquid onto Bran's face. "You opened the door to me."

When Bran bolts awake, his face is wet. He screams.


	46. Cloth Dragons

**The Frosted Fury**

The sun creeps over the eastern horizon, stretching out warm fingers to bring light and warmth to the world. It glitters on the smooth waves of the narrow sea as the white-hulled Manderly vessel cuts gently across the water. A lone gull circles overhead, cawing from time to time as it vanishes in and out of the glare on the horizon. The morning breeze carries sea spray up and into the face of Arya Stark, standing at the bow. The wind blows her hair back, letting the sun hit her face in full. But it gives her no warmth. She has not felt warmth since the Faceless Men brought her back from the River Ash.

She can feel them watching her now. Jaquen and the other two. They did not have names, of course, but she called the man Crook, for his warped back, and the woman Cut, for the scar that divided her chosen face. But when she turns, she is alone on the deck, save for a crewman adjusting the lines and the Ironborn lad they found in Asshai. He is the one staring at her.

"Do you remember me, m'lady?" he asks.

"I don't think we've met."

"No, we did! In King's Landing. I didn't know you were a lady then."

"I'm not a lady now," Arya is quick to protest that title. But now she remembers – a boy in the city when she had gone to kill Cersei. And again, on _The Silence_. "Gyles Farwynd."

"Yes! Of the Lonely Light!"

"You were one of Euron's crew," she points out, and his confidence shrinks at once.

"Euron took me, so my father would serve him."

"It's fine," Arya assures him, looking back to sea. "If we have to fight him, or more of your people, can you fight along us?"

"Fight? Euron?" Gyles' face spreads wide with disbelief. "You don't… We're not… I thought we were leaving! I thought you were going away!"

"Where would you go, Gyles? The whole world is about to be at war. One way or another, we'll have to fight."

"I'd sail across the Sunset Sea, like Elissa Farman!" Gyles vows. Arya remembers her story. It had been one of her favorites. "My father says it can be done. He says there's treasure and new lands, if only we can take it!"

The lad talks longer about his family's dreams. But Arya doesn't listen. To sail across the Sunset Sea and never return… Had her life been as she dreamed so long ago, that would be a fitting end. But now there is only one destination. The chill in her heart deepens. There is no time left for dreams. For her, the future has all run out.

* * *

**The Red Temple**

Awaking, Daenerys slips into her red-orange robe while Jon still sleeps. The hours of night have not dimmed her braziers, but she craves a more natural light. Barefooted, she steps out of the tent. The guards of the Burning Hand do not move as she walks out to embrace the morning sun, feeling the warm stone beneath her toes.

At last, the vast camp is quiet. She stands on the edge of the temple and takes it in. She hears a rush of air overhead. Four dragons rest on the temple now. Even she is not certain how many circle in the clouds above. They had followed her from Asshai, bound by the Valyrian horn. She had once believed that the beasts which hatched from her three eggs would be her only children. But she had found more. And more still, she looks down at the thousands of tents. _They are all my children now, every one. And where shall I lead them?_

'You know what must be done.' The voice is a silent whisper. In the corner of her eye, she can still see the Bloodstone Emperor, whatever he or she or it has become. 'You must free their brothers and sisters.'

She had the dream again last night, after she and Jon had joined together once again - melting shackles, shattered chains, the great wheel crumbling beneath her feet. She lets the front of the robe fall away, letting the sun bathe her bare chest, fueling the fire within. Satisfied, she turns, striding back into the tent. Jon is awake now, stretching on the side of the bed. Before he can say a word she pushes him back down. There is time enough to wait. Time to enjoy what she wants. Because at long last, there is nothing between her and the future.

* * *

**Arianne's Quarters**

Lord Selwyn Tarth is deeply engaged in a game of cyvasse with Lord Franklyn Fowler. They strain to focus, ignoring the clamor of steel in the yard as Brienne of Tarth spars with young Elia Martell. The girl is far better with lance than with sword. But to Brienne's pleasant surprise, she has been a quick learner. Princess Arianne Martell watches all from a reclined chair, peeling an orange. So much has changed. It had not been so long since they had buried first Ser Rolland, then Ellaria in a potter's field outside the city. They had not been allowed near Ellaria's body, for fear of the plague that had finally killed her. Her father, Lord Uller, had not been pleased by that when he arrived. But now their manse was overflowing with life, every Dronish noble in the city crowded here in preparation for the wedding.

"It is an honor to finally meet," Lord Fowler is saying. "I have admired you from afar throughout these wars. No one could ever seem to say whose side you were on."

"As was intended," Selwyn smiles, sliding a piece across the board. "Tarth remains untouched by the savagery of war."

"I hear that you have been seeking matches for your kin," Arianne calls over to them. Selwyn turns his eyes to the princess. "Though Lady Brienne is your only child."

"She is my heir, indeed," Selwyn continues to play, barely glancing back at the board, to Fowler's consternation. "But I have nieces and nephews in ready search for matrimony."

"And you are still the power in Storm's End, are you not?"

"Storm's End has been rightfully returned to House Baratheon."

"But who would follow Robert's bastards, if not for your backing, I wonder? I need to have peace along my borders, Lord Tarth. That means ensuring that those ruling the Stormlands share a mutual respect with me."

"Then I believe we shall be able to reach mutually agreeable terms," Selwyn nods as he finishes his game. The loss spins Fowler into a mild fury, debating with his opponent the moves used. Rising, Arianne sees the sparring match has also ended. She applauds Elia, who immediately runs off to some new activity.

"You'll have to find a spry lord to keep up with that one," Brienne smiles, taking a sloppy drink of water.

"A challenge, for sure," Arianne laughs along. "I note you've not taken a betrothed of your own. You, the sole heir of Tarth and a hero of no small reknown. I had assumed that since Queen Sansa discharged you from her service…"

Brienne turns away, red-faced, to return her sword to the rack. It is clear that both subjects are still sore. "My father oft found me suitors, year ago. They were all interested in my inheritance, until they saw my face. There was only one… But he is gone, now."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Arianne reaches up to place a comforting hand on the tall woman's shoulder. "Your service to the Starks has ended. Leave the snow behind. Serve me in Dorne. And perhaps we may let find a lordling who can keep up with you."

* * *

**Maegor's Holdfast**

The king is carefully examining a selection of doublets, tunics and cloaks, trying to choose the right garb for the wedding ceremonies when his guards alert him to the guest's arrival. Placing the clothes aside, he turns to see the knight enter – a tall, dashing man with the familiar Lysense blood – pale skin, yellow hair, face only marred by a thin scar on his cheek. The black surcoat over his bronzed armor bears the orange mark of his House, a Hightower.

"Ser Gunthor Hightower, your grace," he introduces himself specifically.

"How fares your lord brother?"

"He lies abed under the best of care. We send prayers to the Seven day and night that they might guide him through this storm and rise again."

"You may count my own prayers among them," Grif assures him, though in truth he has never been religious. "What is it you want, Ser Gunthor?"

"Your grace, I know that in these times of division, things may be uncertain. Kingdoms have abandoned the Iron Throne after centuries of loyalty. Even among the Reach, such rabble has taken root. But I have friends, your grace, in Oldtown, in the Marches, in all the great Houses. I can ensure that the kingdom remains loyal to you."

"And in exchange you would have me give Highgarden to you and your wife?" Grif smiles at Gunthor's look of embarrassed surprise. "You are not so secretive as you think, ser. No, I think you and Lady Rhea will yet require more manageable accommodations. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have several weddings to prepare."

Gunthor looks as if all the air has leaked out of him. "But, your grace, the Reach…"

"Is in good hands. I have taken action to ensure its loyalty. You see, Gunthor, I prefer to employ those I trust. And I don't trust a man who would trade his people for a keep. Thankfully, there are still some in this world that hold to higher ideals."

* * *

**Baelor Hightower's Room**

Lord Baelor Hightower lies in pain on the softest bed the Red Keep could spare. Missandei passes Art pacing in the hall outside to find Rhonda and Hela waiting with by the bed. From the dark circles beneath her eyes, it does not seem Rhonda has slept since their arrival. Her husband's wounds from the Roseroad ambush are still not healing.

"My fireflower…" the injured lord struggles to speak when he sees Missandei enter.

"Hush, love," Rhonda soothes him. "I'm sorry, the milk of the poppy has slowed him."

"How is he?" Missandei creeps quietly closer.

"The maesters say he may live. Or he may not. We can only wait and pray."

"I'm sorry…" She stands beside the bed and strokes the lord's limp hand. "You have all been so good to me for so long."

"There Is nothing to be sorry for," Rhonda insists. "Only that fool Dondarrion." She pauses, examining Missandei's face. "We were both heartbroken to hear about your lover's death. And the dragon queen."

_And now Aemon…_ Missandei realizes, and begins to feel tears come. They had all abandoned her, left her alone in this world apart. But no, she is not alone. These are her allies. Her friends. A new family.

"I know you spoke with his grace," Rhonda continues. "It is not hard to imagine what about. But Baelor is in no condition for discourse. Nor," she leans in closely to whisper "is he in any condition to make himself a king."

"Oh, my, who are you?" Hela blurts out. They turn to see that the little bird Alys has slipped into the chamber.

"Lady Missandei, they wish to see you in the sick ward," the girl declares in her own, gruff, uniquely adorable way. She waits, clearly expecting a swift departure on behalf of her target. Missandei, however is reluctant.

"I should stay with you," she insists, but Rhonda shakes her head.

"No, you should go. You have done all you can here. Those people need you."

* * *

**The Sick Ward**

Missandei ducks her head beneath the curtains, following Alys into the makeshift study used by Mallora Hightower. She finds the ward bustling with little birds, septas, maesters and other healers, most recruited from the parties of the visiting nobles.

"No one has seen it before," the girl explains. "Not even in Qyburn's texts."

"So you think it came from Essos?"

"Yes, that is what we believe," Mallora Hightower rises from behind a ponderous stack of books and scrolls. "It was first reported among the Dothraki and the Unsullied. I have been able to contain the spread, but I fear what will happen when the ceremonies are over. We cannot afford to have this spread across Westeros."

"Show me to the patients," Missandei quickly steps into action. "Alys, fetch water. Where is Tyrion? I was told he would be here as well."

"Lord Lannister was called away with his building teams," Mallora sighs. "It seems that all the world but us must stop for the wedding. But someone must tend to the death and the winter. Let it be me, so the young ones must mind the new life."

* * *

**A Hall in the Red Keep**

The dining hall is host to only a few scattered guests now. But amongst them, picking over bland food, are two couples hoping to find some mutual terms before the wedding. Art Hightower, his face still bruised from battle, sits across from Desmera Redwyne. He focuses on his betrothed - her curled red hair tied back in an elaborate braid not dissimilar to the grapes on her sigil. Her burgundy dress with lilac trim. The freckles dotting her slender, pale face. She was not Missandei of Naath. But Art knows he must forget his flights of fancy and do his duty.

"Are you well?" he tries to start a conversation. The hall is eerily quiet, even a whisper feels like he is screaming. "It was my first battle as well. I… haven't slept well."

"It was not my first battle," Desmera finally looks up at him. "I was there, in the Arbor, when the Ironborn attacked. I saw my father and brothers leave to defend our home. I saw their ships burn in the harbor. My mother hid me away, so I did not see them when they killed her. But I heard. I saw when the maester pulled Hobber half-burned from the bay. I sat by his side in hiding for weeks, not knowing if he would live or die or when the raiders would find us. In the end, King Euron put an end to it. But no, Arthur, I do not dream of the attack. In my dreams, I still see the flames of my father and brother burning in the bay."

"I'm… sorry," Art doesn't know what to say. But she takes his hand. And for now that seems to be enough.

At the next table, Talla tries with all her will to focus on Lord Hobber Redwyne and not let her eyes stray to where Art sits. It was hard not to. Art was dashing, strong-jawed and broad-shouldered with sandy hair that fell into his hazel eyes when he laughed. He was strong, too, she could tell, and her proper sensibilities were ashamed to admit while he painted her in Highgarden, that her mind had wondered to imagining what he might look like without his clothes.

Hobber, however, was a tall gangly fencepost topped with a puffy, pox-scarred face and ratty orange tangles already curving back into a sharp widow's-peak. His sword-arm lies limply on the table, ever-gloved to hide the crippling burns and still bandaged from when he had used it to save her life on the Roseroad.

"I never got the chance to thank you," she offers, eating small bites of the roast before her. "You were very brave."

"It does not take courage to do one's duty," Hobber's already red face blushes. "Only honor. But thank you. You look very beautiful today."

Talla blushes in return. Out of all her suitors, she had never believed them when they told her that. But Hobber's sincerity is transparent. A joke comes to her mind, then, they share it and laugh together. Her mother had not met Randyll Tarly until the day of their wedding. She has met Hobber, and he has already defended her in battle. Surely, she tells herself, love can start from there. And so she smiles, and thinks of another joke.

* * *

**The Maidenvault**

Gilly listens from the nearby room as Harlan Dondarrion and Allyria Dayne argue. She knows she ought not spy upon her host, but as she packs away her things to move to the Tarlys' new quarters, she finds herself overwhelmed with curiosity.

"You have to let this go!" Allyria insists.

"Robert's bastards were behind this!" Harlan is unmoved. "They have besmirched the honor of my family and will seek to steal back the titles I earned. I cannot allow it!"

"Your own son besmirched your family's honor, no one else! Because you pushed him away! Go chasing after the Baratheons, and you will only cause more grief! End this, and see to the children you still have left!"

"Everything I did was for the good of my children!" Harlan collapses onto a chaise, energy spent.

"What good did it do for Tywin?"

"I failed him. I know that. Nothing I did for him was good enough. But what was it worth? What good is it to build all this only to have it stripped away? I have followed the rules, I have kept my honor, I have fought and toiled and labored and suffered my entire life. What is honor worth, when sellswords are made king and shameless firstborns get glory they never earned?"

"Is that what this has always been about?" Allyria sits beside him. "To prove you were better than Beric? After all these years?"

"There are a set of rules! A way that things ought to be done. Those that keep them are to be rewarded, those who do not are to be punished! I played the good son, husband, father and lord and what do I have to show? A broken family, a half-ruined castle and a disgraced name. But you…" Harlan turns to Allyria and takes her hand, but she rises instead.

"I am not a trophy for you, Harlan. Not some prize to give you a final victory over your brother." She turns to leave.

"No! I loved you! I've always loved you!"

"You chose between your love and your duty long ago." She stands in the doorway, the light outside casting a dark silhouette. "And you forgot, I think, what love ever was."

* * *

**The Black Cells**

"Queen Sansa will take you with her when she returns North," Edric Dayne tells Tywin, looking through the bars on the door. "She plans to leave as soon as the weddings are through."

"That is soon, isn't it?" Tywin is pressed close against the small window. "Will they let me see my family again?"

"I'm sure they will. Even if King Griffin objects, Arianne will ensure you see them."

"Thank you," Tywin forces a smile for the first time in days. He can see Wynafryd standing away in the shadows. "Could you give us a moment?"

Edric nods and turns away down the hall as Wynafryd steps forward into the flickering light of the single torch. Tywin's knees go weak to see her again, the memories of their times together come flowing back. Never again. The men of the Night's Watch are to be celibate, he knows. For a while he had raged against Mya Baratheon. But in the end he knows he has brought that curse on himself.

"I've never been so far north as the Wall," Wynafryd says. "It's far colder, far harder. But you will survive, I think. You have more of your father in you than you know."

"I'm so sorry…" Tywin struggles to find words to express what he feels. "I thought I could make them respect me. I should have trusted you. What are you going to do now?"

"If things had gone differently, we would be wed tomorrow. Your father would be Hand to the King. And I would be among the most powerful ladies of Westeros. But now I have nothing. And I realized, every day of my life I've depended on the wisdom of others to make the right choices. I've had my plans thwarted again and again by the jealousies and schemes of men. So I'm done playing this game. I will play my own game. I learned the nature of merchants in White Harbor. I think I shall do that. I will find myself a boat. And then a few more. And I will make my own name in this world."

"I think you will be good at that," Tywin wrenches his hand through the bar. She gently touches his fingers one last time.

"And I think you will be a good man of the Watch."

* * *

**The Red Temple**

There are 20 of them, men and women, from all across Essos. Clearly nobles once, they are bruised and bloody, still wearing rags of once fine clothes. Now, men of the Fiery Hand have dragged them up the steps of the temple and presented before Jon, Euron and Daenerys.

"There are many more," Kinvarra is saying. "A thousand in total. Slavers, rapists and oppressors, every last one. We threw them down from their high towers in your name, for the glory of R'hllor. Where once they crushed the people, their blood will set all people free."

"What do you mean?" Daenerys asks, warily.

"The sacrifice," the high priestess explains. "To right the ancient wrongs and restore what once was. To carry your army to Westeros and claim what even the Bloodstone Emperor could not complete. To bring our peace to all lands. Essos is yours. Then Westeros, and then beyond the reaches of civilization. The sun will never set and the summer of freedom will never end."

Her dream is coming true, Daenerys can feel it. But these people…

"You mean to say that they are the sacrifice?" she points to them.

"Yes. All powerful magic demands life to be offered up. They are evil, but their spirits will in death be reclaimed for good."

"A thousand, you say?" Euron draws his cutlass. "I'd like to try my hand at winnowing out their number, myself."

"No," Kinvarra stops him. "The time is not yet here."

"Then it best hurry up," he stares at her defiantly with his shaded eye. "I am not a patient man. I'm here to conquer."

"And conquer you shall, my lord," Moqorro vows. That seems to assuage him, and the prisoners are led away. Daenerys walks away alone towards the far side of the temple. Jon and Eres follow and find her idly running her hands through the flames of one of the firepots.

"You are troubled, holy one," Eres whispers. "What is wrong?"

"I am fine," she insists. "I just need peace to… to speak with the Lord. See to it that Euron does not cause any trouble." Eres nods and leaves, but Jon remains. She kisses him softly, but urges him to leave as well. "Wait for me. I will be with you soon. But I need to be alone." Jon reluctantly returns to the tent and Daenerys turns back to the fire. In its dancing flames, she sees the faces of Bloodstone, ever shifting and fading with the sparks.

'You have doubts, Azor Ahai. It is far too late to doubt.' She looks away, but the voice is still there. 'What is a thousand more lives to free the world? To break every chain? What is one last sacrifice against those who died in King's Landing? These slavers are evil. If cutting them down is monstrous, what does that make someone who razed a city? The old world must die to build the new.'

"I'm not a monster!" she shouts, lashing out at the fire. But there is no one there to hear.

The Bloodstone is right, she tells herself. She had not meant to destroy King's Landing. She knew the wildfire was a risk, but it was not her intent. But when the city burned, she took responsibility. She did not deny what she had done. It was a necessary risk to win the war. Let weak men call her a monster. But she will give them what they are too blind to see they need.

Sitting down, feet dangling over the edge of the temple, she reaches out to sense the fire, feeling heat burn within her blood. Sparks fly away from the torches, dancing and forming first a horse, then a dragon. Her mind soothes as she shapes the wings of fire and freedom. It flies up and into the sky, before dissipating into embers that fall down, down to sputter out on the camp below. She is ready, she tells herself. She is at the door of destiny. And she will not hesitate.

* * *

**The Ruins of the Sept**

The workers had toiled through the nights to restore the royal sept to some semblance of order, clearing rubble and repairing the damaged icons of the Seven. Tyrion is frustrated, there are other, more pressing matters to attend to. But marriages are key to holding a kingdom together. And it is generally best to make them look presentable. And now the work is all but done. He stands alone.

"You have done good work, Lord Lannister." Tyrion is surprised to see a gorgeous woman in a lilac dress enter with a fleet of maidservents and septas, carrying folds of rainbow fabric and other pleasantries in their arms. "Lady Allyria Dayne. The king believed that the sept could use a feminine eye to add some holy color to the ruined stone aesthetic." She laughs. "Not that your own work is lacking, of course, how did you manage to salvage…" He looks up at her, mouth clenched shut. "Oh, I beg your pardon, I had forgotten."

Tyrion shakes his head, reassuringly. He is tired, and ready to go back to his quarters. After today, even his lumpy mattress seems a dream of comfort. But something yet compels him to stay. He scratches out on his slate – _May I help?_ – Allyria nods with a smile and hands him a roll of cloth. She points, and Tyrion waddles off, once again relieved he had turned down the seat on the Small Council. His sister had once said that in this game, you either win or die. Perhaps he may yet find something in between.

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

On her way back from the council chambers, having solidified the details of her new kingdom's borders with King Griffin, Princess Arianne Martell cuts through the great hall. She stops before the Iron Throne and the night sky shining through the destroyed wall behind it. She breathes in the night air, taking a few cautious steps forward. Her slender fingers reach out and touch the cold steel.

This chair was to be hers. That had been father's plan. She was to marry Viserys Targaryen. And later, he had sought out Aemon, a mission she had taken as her own. She had lost so much playing this game – her lovers, her peace, her face. But she had gained so much. The princess who had seduced Arys Oakheart had been a foolish girl. But she was a woman now, and she knew what true power was. She had found it and claimed it for herself. The Iron Throne had been her father's dream. But it was cold, and sharp, with none of the romance of the stories she once believed in. She was not a part of those stories anymore. Now she will write her own.

* * *

**The Frosted Fury**

Below deck, the crew of the Manderly vessel enjoy a pleasant dinner. Even Sandor Clegane seems to have gotten over his queasy stomach at sea. He and Ser Myles duel in a bizarre game of chance involving painfully hot peppers that Sandor struggles increasingly to fake a tolerance for. Garin spins tales of his roguish deeds to the rapt attention of young Gyles. Sam continues to study his magic texts while keeping a watchful eye on the ominous killers Arya had brought aboard. And Sarella breaks into a collection of strange blue wine they had onboarded in Asshai. Not everyone, however, is enjoying the brief moments of peace.

In the captain's quarters, Arya sits silently on the bed, as Gendry clumsily tries to make conversation. He sits beside her, inching ever closer.

"I'm sorry for how things ended in the city. I was being rash. I still love you. I… I hope you feel the same. I've lost you twice. I can't bare it again." He takes her hand and tries to slide the thick gloves off her fingers, but she quickly pulls away.

"I do. I do love you, but…" as she tries to leave, he pulls her back by the shoulder.

"But what?"

"Our fight is not over. We have to stop Daenerys," Arya insists. "I have to stop Daenerys. I could die. We all could die."

"Then there's no better time to make right," Gendry insists, earnestly. He pulls her in and Arya lets him kiss her. And slowly, it begins to feel right again. She can feel, and she feels what she wants so badly. She kisses him back, holding him tight. Old instincts take over and one hand begins to tug at his laces, the other at his hair. She feels him stiffen as his free hand slips under her shirt. And then it stops on her heart. She pulls away, violently.

"What is that?" Gendry steps back, alarmed. "You're so cold."

"You need to go!" she insists, pointing to the door. "Now."

"But…" he does not get a chance at another word as she pushes him back and shuts him out. With him gone, Arya tears off her shirt and looks down to wear the jagged tip of dragonglass emerges from the flesh over her heart. There are ice crystals there, more than there were before. Desperate, she pulls off the gloves and stares in growing horror at the tips of her fingers, slowly turning blue-white and rigid.

Collapsing back into the bed, she wraps the blankets tightly around her and tries to dream of being with Gendry again. But neither blankets nor dreams will find ways to warm her now.

* * *

**The Red Temple**

Eres gasps for breath as Euron finishes with a howl. Their naked bodies roll apart on the warm stone steps. Euron wonders if anyone had seen. They certainly had heard. He hopes they all know, for at both love and war, nothing pleases him more than an audience. The warrior woman was not so attractive, he thinks to himself, watching her stand to retrieve her clothes and armor. But she certainly knew how to please her god's champion. Grinning arrogantly, Euron declines to dress, instead striding nude back to the top of the pyramid, past the guards and Daario.

"Why don't you have a try?" he smirks at the brooding general. "Take a break. Ain't no one going to harm your savior up here. Find yourself a woman and stop being miserable. I don't care for unhappy people. They put me in foul moods."

Daario uncomfortably leaves, and Euron looks over the other guards and servants. The power within him surges, riding on a high of knowing each man and woman here will leap to his every command. He could spend the entire night in passion without tiring. But there is far more pleasure to seek now. It is time to use his true powers.

He finds the stairs leading into the dark chamber within the temple. Moqorro is waiting there for him. The old priest snaps his fingers and a spark flies out to light Euron's dragonglass eye. He takes a seat in the center of the room as Moqorro backs away and the shadows within him begin to dance again. They take the faces of those he hates the most – Theon, Yara, Bran, Jon Snow – _Who to visit first?_

* * *

**Chataya's Brothel**

Queen Yara Greyjoy had once again woken up screaming. Her chosen lover this past evening was one of Lord Fowler's daughters, the rumors of whose preferences the sea queen had been very pleased to discover were true. But after that night, Yara doubts the young woman will share her bed again. It had been Euron. It was always Euron. And every night he became more real. She swore she could see the mark where she dreamt his hands had seized her throat. And now she knew. She would not have time to hunt down her uncle. He was coming for her.

Dressing herself, she tries to remember the fragments of her nightmares. He was mocking her all along, she knows. Taunting her with images of his plan. The storm he was about to unleash on Westeros. Her first instinct had been to flea back to her islands and her people. Let the whole of Westeros buffer the onslaught. But that is what he would want. To prove she was weak. And Queen Yara Greyjoy was not weak. As she steps into the foyer, she sees her allies. Some, almost, her friends. Sansa Stark, Arianne Martell, Brienne of Tarth, Robin Arryn and Theon await at her urgent, early morning summons.

"What is the matter?" Sansa asks.

"Your brother was right," Yara answers bluntly. "We need to find him and find a way to make Griffin understand what's coming."

"What's coming?" Robin asks.

"The end of the world."

That freezes the conversation for a moment. Finally, Arianne speaks. "Should we cancel the weddings?"

"No," Yara shakes her head. "Let them have their merriment while it lasts. But we cannot afford to wait another day."

"My brother's powers do not reach across the Narrow Sea," Sansa points out, before remembering. "But I know someone's who do."

* * *

**The Ruins of the Sept**

Missandei stands tall in a fine dress among the nobles as the band sends melodious marital tunes up through the missing roof to the heavens above. She had wanted to stay in the ward, but even Mallora, still has disheveled as ever, had begrudgingly agreed to attend for her nephew's sake. And if she hopes to keep the status she had worked so hard to win, Missandei knows she must be seen among the nobles.

The high septon waits at the alter in his crystal crown as one by one the young couples come to bind themselves together, the husbands replacing their wives' cloaks with their own. Most of the names she does not know. Robert Brax and Cerenna Lannister. Humfey Hightower and Alla Tyrell. Brynden Blackwood and Barbara Bracken. But she does know Alan Ambrose, Alysanne's son, marrying Elinor Tyrell. And then there are Talla and Art. She prays to the Lord of Harmony that they will find love and happiness as their betrothals to Hobber and Desmera are completed.

The joy in the room warms Missandei's heart, she has not felt the presence of such happiness in so long. There are smiles all around, save for on the face of Harlan Dondarrion. And then she remembers Daenerys, and wishes her queen was here to share this moment. Or Grey Worm. She lets such mournful thoughts fade, however, as the processionals begin to file away for feasts of celebration and, later, bedding ceremonies that Missandei wanted no part of.

She finds herself alone with King Griffin, Bran and their guards.

"Lady Missandei," Grif bows politely. "May I escort you to the feast?"

She takes his arm, but they stop and turn as Bran calls out.

"Your Grace! I've tried to warn you, but the threat grows ever deeper. If you won't listen to me, then listen to her!" Bran motions and Mallora steps out from the shadows. Missandei gasps to see the glass candle in her hand. Grif cautiously draws nearer. "You need to see," Bran warns as the candle begins to glow. "You need to see what waits across the sea."

* * *

_A/N: And here we go. These last two chapter might have felt a little slow, but I hope you've enjoyed them. There were a lot of tertiary plotlines to wrap up before the final battle. Art, Talla, Arianne and the Dondarrions have all reached some sort of closure on their arcs, so we can fully focus on the "big dogs" now. Also, as you may of noticed, despite their betrothal, Sansa and Mycah were not married here. Sansa is holding off for a return North so they can be wed in the tradition of the Old Gods, before a weirwood. So now there's only three chapters left. In the words of Samuel L. Jackson, Hold Onto Your Butts!_


	47. Lightbringer

**Stark Quarters**

In the darkest hours of morning, Sansa Stark sits awake, eyes wide open. She was glad there had been no northerners wed the day before, or else she would have been dragged off to a bedding ceremony. Instead, she had ate and drank far too much at the feast, hoping to find an ease from the tension. No ease ever came. Mycah had helped her home, loosened her too-tight corset and she has sat here ever since. It is taking too long. She should have heard from them by now.

Bran had taken Mallora to confront King Griffin, to show him the threat that was awaiting across the sea. Sansa had not looked into the flames of the glass candle herself. But she had heard the terrible dreams her brother and Yara had had, and that was enough. She jumps up at the sound of footsteps, but it is only Mycah, and she collapses back into her seat.

"You should rest," her betrothed insists. The dying fire plays tricks on his face. "They'll send for you in the morning. You won't want to be tired."

"I can't sleep," she murmurs as he kneels to poke at the coals, sparking the flames to rise higher again. "Not like this. I keep thinking back, to the night on the river. I almost drowned. I almost froze to death. The dead were attacking. But we won. And I thought the next morning that if we could do that, we could do anything. And when the city fell, I thought it was over."

"It is over," Mycah comes to her side. "We did win. We don't even know if Daenerys will come back. Maybe Jon will find her and maybe they'll rule Essos together and we can go home and never fight again."

"No," Sansa shakes her head. "It's never over. We only think we can win. But there's always something else. Something worse. And if there isn't, we create it ourselves. I don't think we know how to live without something to fear."

"I don't think you believe that." He takes her hand. She looks down into the deep sea-green of his eyes. Her thoughts drift away and for a moment she can hear the crashing of the waves, feel the chill of a northern wind and the tender sting of fresh-fallen snow on her face.

"I think I do," she finally says. "But it's not fear that kills us."

Before Mycah can respond, a sharp rapping sounds at the door. The guards rush in, men of the Golden Company on their heels.

"Your grace!" Rolly Duckfield commands. "Prepare yourself. King Griffin requires your presence in his council chambers at once!"

* * *

**Chataya's Brothel**

Yara paces her chambers. She should have gone with Bran and the Hightower witch, she thinks. But she did not hold the ear of the king like the Master of Whisperers. And so it was her place to tread lines into the stone awaiting some news, any news.

"Yara," Theon's voice calls. She turns to see her brother standing in the doorway. His wolfhelm is off, held in his hands. For the first time since she pushed him overboard to escape Euron's clutches, she looks into his face. And once again, Theon is a different man. Yara had known Theon the boy, Theon the arrogant prince, Theon the brainwashed servant and Theon the sniveling coward. But the guard standing before her is a soldier hardened by war. _At last, the man he always wanted to be._

"Is there word from the king?" she runs to his side. "What has he decided?"

"Nothing. Nothing yet."

"Then why are you here? Shouldn't you be with your prince?"

"The king wished to speak to him in private. And I needed to speak to you."

"What is it?"

"When this started, you said you had a dream," Theon is hesitant, traces of fear still in his eyes. "You said Euron had come to you in your sleep, that you thought he was trying to tell you something he was about to do. I… I think I've had the same dreams. And I don't think they're dreams." He slowly rolls up a woolen sleeve to reveal deep purple and yellow bruises on his arms, as if they had been crushed by tentacles.

"I know," Yara pulls down the collar of her own vest to show the bruising around her neck. "He's finally found the power he searched for his whole life."

""I thought he was gone! Why does he have to come back? Why won't he leave us alone? He doesn't even want the Seastone Chair!" Theon pleads for an answer. Yara seizes his shoulders and steadies him until the soldier returns.

"Because he hates us. Because we beat him. He can never allow a slight to pass. No matter how much power he has, it will keep him awake, gnawing at him, tearing him apart, because he knows somewhere out there are people who bested him. And so he will come for us. He will come for blood with all his power. But I promise, we will stop him. We will end this."

Theon leans forward on impulse and embraces her. Oddly enough, she finds herself hugging him back. There is shouting from the yard below. The Greyjoys look down to see men of the Golden Company scuffling with the Unsullied guards below.

"What do you want?" Yara calls down. But she already knows the answer and turns to the stairs before the visitors can reply.

* * *

**Tyrion's Quarters**

Little Tysha was sleeping well tonight. Tyrion has insisted she and her nurse stay close to his room, for he cannot bear to pass too long without seeing the babe. They said that King Griffin would restore his claim to Castlery Rock. And for once, he truly wanted it. He wanted it so he could give it to her. To Jaime's girl. At last he has a home to go to, when the time comes. For now, though, his focus was on the city. He had spent his life tearing so much down. It was high time he start building things up.

Tonight he had gotten drunk for the first time in what felt like ages. He had fulfilled his role as lord and guided young Robert Brax to his wedding bed. The scarred lad had almost seemed happy. _There may be hope for him yet_, Tyrion thinks. _Hope for all of us_. Yet just before he can crawl into bed, there is a rapping on the door. Harry Strickland swings it open.

"The king has summoned you!" the general announces. Tyrion scrambles for his slate and chalk, but Strickland made it clear. Tongue or no tongue, it seemed whatever new crisis was unfolding at this ungodly hour would require his brain.

* * *

**Arianne's Quarters**

Tonight's sleep is peaceful. There are no night terrors, no horrors from across the Narrow Sea pervert the princess' slumber this evening. Tomorrow with the dawn would bring a new era for her as the Princess of Dorne. She could go home and forget the Iron Throne for good. Let the others fret about Daenerys and Euron. Her kingdom had staved off invaders before, they would do it again if need be.

And so in her dreams she is soaring above the familiar deserts of home like a falcon at night, the endless sea of sand beneath her and the even vaster sea of stars above. It feels as if it could go on forever. Until Lord Fowler disturbs her peace by order of the king, to tell her she is not free to fly just yet.

* * *

**Art's Chamber**

The newly-married heir to Oldtown sits on the side of his bed. He can hear his wife's soft breathing, the thin slat of moonlight through the window falling upon her scarlet hair strewn out on the pillow. _It is done_, he thinks. His future cemented with so simple an act. It had been a clumsy affair, neither partner knowing in truth what they were doing. The pleasure will grow, so they say. _And so will love_, he hopes. His introspection is disturbed by shouts and clanking armor in the hall.

"What is it?" Desmera murmurs, half-awake.

"Let me see," Art rises and wraps a robe around him. "It's nothing, I'm sure." But when he opens the door, he sees the stoic face of Black Balaq, of the Golden Company.

"Get dressed, lord. The king needs you."

* * *

**The Maidenvault**

Harlan Dondarrion does not drink. His brothers had, and his father before them. And it had made them foolish. But tonight, from the moment he had slammed the door behind him to drown out the sounds of the wedding feast, he has tried to drink away the suffocating feeling of failure. It was not working. Now, he is only sprawled out on the chaise with a crippling headache.

All was not lost, he tells himself again and again. In the span of a few weeks, all his children had accrued advantageous betrothals. And he was still, so far as he could tell, Warden of the East. But he had lost his eldest son. He had lost his place as Hand. And he had lost Allyria. Beric won. He would live on forever in songs. Harlan would be a footnote, the shortest tenured Hand in history. Responsibility has failed him for the last time, he decides, and rises to search for more wine. But as he stands, he sees he is not alone.

He did not hear the door open. But standing there, nonetheless, is the king himself.

"Your grace," his jaw drops as he rushes to straighten his clothes and smooth his hair. "I apologize, I did not hear you enter!"

"No need, Harlan," Grif steps forward, calming him. "I can't have you panicking." He eyes the empty wine bottles. "Are you about your facilities?"

"Yes, your grace," Harlan bows, the shock proving sobering.

"Good," the king extends his hand, and Harlan nearly collapses when he sees the gilded pin within. "The kingdom is in crisis. I need my Hand."

* * *

**Small Council Chamber**

When the lords and ladies are finally brought into the chamber, they find King Griffin seated at the far end of the table. At his left sit Harry Strickland and Harlan Dondarrion. At his right sit Bran and Mallora Hightower. And looming behind them like a great white shadow, Ghost watches all with piercing red eyes.

"What is she doing here?" Gunthor Hightower points at his sister.

"Lady Mallora Hightower has come with my Master of Whisperers to warn us of a great threat across the sea," Grif rises, forebodingly. "Daenerys Targaryen is preparing to return with an army of dragons and more men than the world has ever seen."

"You would take the word of these sorcerers?" Lord Peake scoffs.

"They hold more power and trust than you will ever hope to claim," Grif silences the scheming lord. "Our kingdoms stand on the brink."

"Soon, very soon, the preparations will be ready. Magic has reawakened in this world. The Night of the Dead was only the beginning. The powers of R'Hllor stretch forth from Ass'hai to reclaim what was denied it millennia ago. The unending summer of the Empire of the Dawn. There are dark magics foretold that would restore what was taken and bring them to our shores. When they arrive, they will burn down every castle, every wood, every temple until Westeros is remade in their image."

"How can we stand against a force like that!" Lord Tully blurts out.

"An army of dragons?" King Robin is clearly terrified.

"Daenerys means to raise the Arm of Dorne back from the sea," Grif declares. "We will march all our armies there to take a stand."

"I will go to Storm's End," Bran adds. "It's halls were built to withstand dark magics. There are ways to stop this army. We will find them and use them. We can win this war, but we must stand together."

"The Northern armies will defend those who remain in the city," Sansa interrupts. This was clearly not a part of the original plan. "We were the wall against the White Walkers. Have we not sacrificed enough?"

"Your grace speaks wisely," Grif agrees. It seems all is settled, until…

"Even if we can stop them, why should we?" The crowd of nobles parts to reveal Lord Grafton, standing in the rear, still wearing the fiery heart of R'Hllor. "The Lord of Light promises freedom and peace. An end to winter, to hunger, even to death. How can we fight against that. Is that not what we all want?"

For a moment, no one has an answer. Until Davos Seaworth stands.

"Winter is just as much a part of life as hunger, Lord Grafton," he speaks. "Night as well as day."

"The night is dark and full of terrors!"

"That is true," Missandei rises beside Davos. "But that does not make it evil, nor wrong. Without the night, how would we know the stars or the moon? Without winter, how would we know snow? Without hunger, what is plenty? This world is made of cycles. There is a harmony, a balance among them. It isn't meant to be a war. One side against another, this quest for control, that is the true enemy. That is what we must stand against. So I say bring on the ice and the fire. Bring on the clear skies and the storms. Night and day, summer and winter, love and hate. These are the things that make us alive. An endless life of ease is not worth sacrificing what makes us human."

There is a moment of silence in the room. At last Tyrion rises and takes his place beside Missandei in agreement. Slowly, one by one, more and more nobles stand and follow suit, until at last all eyes turn to the head of the table.

"Then it is settled," Grif nods, placing _Blackfyre_ on the table. "May the Father grant us wisdom, the Mother her mercy and the Warrior his strength. This is the battle of a generation. Follow me, and we will see the spring."

The meeting is over as quickly as it began as the nobles rush to prepare. As Obara and Theon wheel Bran out of the room, he finds Sansa waiting for him, and signals he wishes to be left alone.

"Jon is with them, you know," Sansa muses. "If their armies come, it will be him leading them."

"I know."

"It's really over, isn't it?" Sansa takes his hand, tears beginning to form. "Our family. No matter what we tried, this damned war couldn't let us have peace."

"No," Bran shakes his head. He looks over to see Mycah and Meera waiting on them. "It isn't over. A new one is just beginning."

"I pray you're right," Sansa breathes calmly and plants a gentle kiss on Bran's forehead.

"So do I," he answers as she turns away. "So do I."

* * *

**Bran's Room**

The room in the Red Keep that had been handed over to Bran is small and cramped. The mattress is hard and rocky, but that is what Bran has become accustomed to. He reminds himself that most people in this shell of a city have far less to sleep upon. At the door, Ghost growls as Mallora Hightower slips silently into the room.

"Lord Stark. We need to speak before you leave tomorrow."

"You are concerned. I can tell," Bran props himself up straight in bed. "What troubles you, Mallora?"

"We meddle in powers far beyond us," the mystic woman takes a seat beside him. "When I was young, I began to have dreams. I saw a great doom come upon the land. It was always different: Ice that froze, Fire that consumed or Seas that drowned. But it ended the same way every night. The end of humanity. That is why my father first began to study the mystic arts, to find a solution. To stop this from coming. But after all of his reading, all of his studies of the forgotten ways and lost texts, we never found a way. Using magic to fight magic is like using fire to fight fire, Bran. In the end, everyone gets burned."

"I don't believe that," Bran insists. "I can't believe that. Magic is a part of this world, just like me or you. Yes, it is abused to twist the world and order, but I can be better. If not, what am I? I am magic!"

"You are a very clever young man. And a good prince. You must not forget that, or else you will end up wasting away beneath a tree."

"You know…"

"Bloodraven sought out many children with gifts until he found one as great as yours, Bran. He thought he could do good, too. And look where it left him."

"I'm not like Bloodraven!" Bran vows. He hears Ghost growl again from the door.

"Are you so sure? Why is it that you commanded me to follow Mya Baratheon on the front lines? I know magic, Bran, you won't fool me. I know the power of king's blood."

"We will all do what must be done to save our world."

"Very well, child," Mallora rises. "But best see to it that the world left over is one worth living in."

* * *

**The Frosted Fury**

"A girl must accept her fate if she hopes to save her friends." Jaquen H'Ghar watches Arya at her perch on the front railing of the boat. She has pulled off her gloves, exposing the icy discoloring of her fingers.

"You made me into one of them," she glares bitterly.

"A girl slew the champion of the Many-Faced God. There is only one way to repay that debt." Arya turns towards him and for a moment contemplates leaping overboard and dragging him with her. But it would never work. The God of Death would find a way to drag her back, just like in Asshai, and before in Braavos.

"What am I supposed to tell Gendry?"

"Say nothing. Attachment has always held a girl back, like an anchor."

"An anchor is a good thing," Arya spits back. "It keeps you steady."

Before Jaquen can offer a further retort, Sandor Clegane is stomping towards them. Arya rushes to put the gloves back on, hiding her deformities.

"Out, Lorathi," Sandor growls and Jaquen leaves them be. "Where did you stumble across the like of him?"

"Jaquen is an old friend," Arya answers. "He saved my life twice."

"And now he wants a favor. I know the type. You don't want nuthin' to do with 'em. It never ends well. We should be headed home. Let Daenerys and Jon play at being gods. What do any of us care? If they cross the sea, we'll be ready."

"You don't understand. They'll never be ready. It has to be me."

"You ain't throwing your life away on my watch, pup. You got great things going for you. Family back home and a boy below decks whose mad in love with you. You chased him away once and he still came back. Don't do it again. You don't want to be like me, a cranky old piece of shit waiting for the right day to die. People are the only pleasures in this life worth having."

Arya looks sadly back to him. She wants to let it spill, to declare everything. But where could she ever begin. Instead, she smiles weakly. "This is a journey only I can walk. But I promise you, Sandor, whatever I become, it won't be anything like you."

* * *

**The Red Temple**

Since reaching the temple, Jon's dreams have only been of Daenerys, his slumber blending his waking hours, melded by the joy of being in her love again. But last night he had dreamed something different. He was back in the Land of Always Winter. The Children of the Forest had given him their weirwood pods. They had told him he was supposed to save Westeros. But that night in his sleep, he had watched as the Children burned, along with Winterfell. He saw the fires grow so hot that the cold marble of Ned Stark's grave began to warp and melt, distorted into a silent scream.

Jon tries to dispel these night memories as he rides horseback, following Daenerys through the vast army camp surrounding the temple. High Priestess Kinvara wanted to show the savior to her subjects in person. He tries to banish the haunting memories of the man he once was, drowning them beneath the waves of people rushing to see them.

Bright eyes turn to them, hands grasp up and grateful words of praise sing from the mouths of every nation and tongue as word spreads that their liberator, their Mother of Dragons, their Azor Ahai has come to see them. He watches his love's eyes light up to see them, and he understands. Everything she did, was for this. For these people. She is happy. And at last he is happy, too. The Children were no different from anyone else in the end. They all wanted him to serve their own will and purpose. But he was done living for other people's dreams. This was his dream now. To carry the light and to bring it to his own people.

At last, they arrive at one of the great kitchens tasked with feeding the thousands of mouths gathered here. The smells of food from across Essos wafts over him as he follows Daenerys into the tent. More jubilant followers greet her here, too, as she steps back to help serve the meals. Jon follows, but Eres blocks his path. The fiery warrior leans in close to his ear and whispers.

"I can sense doubt in the Lord's plan. There are no secrets here, Jon of the West. Do not think I will hesitate to kill you if you stand in the way of Azor Ahai."

But she leaves him be, and soon Jon is ladling stew into bowls, exchanging smiles with Daenerys and grateful children eager to be fed. _I do not doubt_, he tells himself. _I do not doubt._

* * *

**The Red Keep**

The open plaza where Cersei had painted her map of Westeros still stands among the ruined portion of the castle, but it has not remained untouched. Cracks run through the tile and several shattered holes cut straight through to the dirt beneath. It is around one of those holes that Grif and Bran huddle now. In his hands, Bran clutches one of the smooth white weirwood pods, crossed with sticky red veins.

"It seems odd," Grif muses as the pod is placed into the dirt. "To plant before winter is passed. Before our battles our won."

"We have to have faith," Bran assures him. "Faith that we will return to another tomorrow. That we are building something new for those who come after us. No matter what happens, the world will never be the same. I would rather spend these moments bringing forth new life."

Grif nods, approvingly, as he covers the pod with soil and pats it down, sprinkling water over the top of it. He sits for a long while, staring at the patch of dirt, before finally looking back up to Bran, his white-blonde hair in disarray beneath his steel crown.

"Lord Stark. You have seen every king known to man. Wise kings and fools, brave kings and cowards, pious kings and madmen. Tell me. Am I a good king?"

Bran is surprised by the question. "You have served the people well. And I pray that you will serve them well for many years after."

"I should have listened to you from the beginning. Now it may be too late to stop Daenerys."

"You were focused on what you believed was most important to hold the kingdoms together. Had you not done so, our armies could not stand together against this threat."

"But do I deserve to lead them?" Grif asks. "I'm only here because generations guarded my line to retake the Iron Throne for a revenge I had no part of. I was ordained from birth to sit on that chair. What did I do to earn it?"

"I don't think anyone earns it," Bran muses. "A ruler can only accept what is thrust upon them. It is after they begin to lead that they can earn their place. That they can prove themselves worthy." He watches as Grif rises and straightens his crown. Strickland has come to fetch them, the armies are ready to march. And then the moment is gone, and they can only hope they will earn the worth of their roles.

* * *

**The City Walls**

Sansa watches as Meera and Obara help Bran atop Ghost for the ride to Storm's End. She has already said her good-byes, and the king has already marched off with his armies. But she lingers a moment longer.

"Theon!" She calls him over. He marches stiffly her way and stands at attention. Smiling, Sansa pulls the wolf helm from his head and looks him in the eyes. "Do you think that we can win this fight?"

"I believe in Prince Bran," Theon vows. "And I believe in you." He looks over for a moment to see Mycah smile and salute from his horse nearby. For the smallest moment, a twinge of sadness crosses his face as he looks back to Sansa.

"I believe in you as well," she places her hand over his heart. The cold metal stings, but she no longer minds. "I owe my life to you. I just wanted to say thank you. For everything. You're a good man. Take good care of him." He nods. They embrace, just as they had the night she left Winterfell before the battle against the dead. They had both survived that long night. But deep in her heart, Sansa can only hope that any of them will survive the day ahead.

* * *

**The Frosted Fury**

The wind is dead. The Narrow Sea has never appeared calmer as the lonely Manderly boat floats adrift atop idle waves.

"The god of light and shadow has stolen the breath from our sails," Jaquen stares out at the horizon. "The hours of winter run low. Our time is nearly gone."

"Well, we can't sail without wind," Sandor snaps, "so quit whinging!"

"Garin!" Sam thinks of a potential solution. "Your water magic!"

"I've barely been able to heal burns," Garin stammers. "I don't think I could…" but as the rogue raises his arms in protest, Jaquen grabs one, examining his olive skin.

"A man is of the Rhoyne. Its magic runs in your blood." The assassin turns Garin around and points him to the rear of the boat.

"We've studied as well!" Sarella follows, pulling Sam behind her. "We can help."

Garin stops at the edge of theboat, leaning half out over the pristine brine below. He closes his eyes and breathes in the salt. He can taste the Greenblood, his old home, and the Rhoyne, the spirit of his people, though he had never seen it. He can hear the words of Mallora and his own grandmother, trying to awaken the water within him. He tastes more salt, the salt of his own sweat now, brow furrowed as he reaches out with his mind and soul. He can hear something different now, something beneath the surface. The currents. The sea is singing, a song strange but familiar. It feels like home.

And the surface of the sea begins to churn.

* * *

**The Red Temple**

The fires of the forge burn bright in the night, ominous screams echoing from within. In the blistering heat of the largest furnace, Moqorro the red priest toils, red robes cast aside, heavy sweat running down his ebony skin as he finishes his arcane work.

Euron sits nearby, turned away from the glare, waiting. "Is it ready?" he asks as he hears the final ominous steam of cooling water hitting fresh steel and the ringing of hammers comes to an abrupt halt.

"It is, your grace," Moqorro answers. The Sea King rises, and the red priest and his attendants come to him. He stretches his arms out and feels the bite of still sizzling armor as it is placed upon his numb body. Piece by piece, it is assembled, until at last he turns to see Moqorro holding his helm – a great, terrifying coil of a kraken's tentacles, that seem to write in the shadow. As Euron lifts the helm high and places it atop his head, he feels the heat and the colors of the armor ripple and dance.

Valyrian Steel – Every Piece.

He seems like a demon from the seven hells as he rises up out of the forge, the light of the fire reflecting off the new armor and blinding the neatly placed rows of men before him. These are not the former slaves of the Fiery Hand, but a ragtag collection of the most savage and fierce warriors from across Essos. Men he had picked himself for the work that must be done.

"Across that sea wait men who would stop your Lord!" he declares, climbing wild-eyed atop the wall of the forge. "Men who would return you to chains! Men who would deny you your world! But they are nothing! Not to us! We ride on the wings of gods! We will rain fire down upon them and they will burn, as all who stand in our way will, for now and forever! And as their ashes rise to the sky, we will only grow stronger!"

The men cheer. "But there is one! There is one man, one foul creature in all of Westeros that can stand in our way. A twisted old raven that thinks itself a boy. His claws can tear our dragons from the sky and peck out our brains! Which is why I have chosen you. You will come with me. My fool brothers ilk guard him now! But we will shoot the Raven down and feast upon its plunder! And the man who brings me the head of my niece will be the most powerful man in Westeros!"

"Crow's Eye! Crow's Eye! Crow's Eye!" Swords clatter together as the chant rises high with the fire and the soot. And beneath the glistening Valyrian helm, Euron smiles.

* * *

**The Frosted Fury**

The smoke rising from the shore ahead falls back down to lay heavy over the sea, a choking layer of dark, unnatural fog that blinds and gags the crew of the little ship as it draws nearer. Under Garin's power, they had made excellent time. And now they are almost there.

"What's our plan of attack?" Sam asks.

"You get me to the temple and I eliminate the enemy," Arya states, coldly.

"We're going with you!" Gendry blurts out.

"No," Arya dismisses him. "I know what I'm doing. Jaquen and I will do the job. Everyone else can stand by."

"Surely there must be something else we can do to help!" Sam pleads. "This is my fault!"

"You've brought me here, Sam," Arya insists. "That is enough."

"No!" he protests, turning to run below deck. "There's something else!" When he reutrns, he is carrying _Heartsbane, _his family's fabled Valyrian greatsword. "Take this!" He extends it to Arya, who for a moment only looks at it, confused.

"Don't be a fool Tarly!" Sarella laughs. "Our Lady Stark may be a fierce warrior, but a girl her size cannot hope to wield a sword like that. Here, I have some daggers that…" She trails off as Arya silently grabs the greatsword from Sam's hands and unsheathes it, holding the Valyrian steel effortlessly aloft to sparkle in the sun.

"Thank you, Sam," she smiles, and Sam for a moment thinks he sees ice crystals in her eyes. "The sword will guide me true. I promise, I will make things right."

* * *

**The Broken Arm**

The sun is setting behind them as the army of Westeros arrives at the jagged coast of Dorne, where once the mighty Arm had stretched across the Narrow Sea. A long, hard journey completed at last. King Griffin leads them, General Strickland, Mya Baratheon and Mallora Hightower at his side. The fading sun in the west glistens off of his white hair as it blows in the wind, casting his face into shadow as he looks across the sea.

"There is no time to sleep, General," Grif commands. "Have the men begin to build the barricades. We must work through the night."

Strickland and Mya leave, riding back through the Dondarrion men and Horpe knights that surround their king.

"Can you see it?" Mallora asks, looking out over the horizon. There is no land in sight. But gleaming in the dark, leagues away across the sea, a burning ember can be seen. One that all know foretells doom for them all. _From here, it seems so smal_l, Grif thinks. _If only I could snuff it out so easily with my fingers._ He turns to see Mallora watching him mournfully, and wonders what thoughts lurk behind those strange orange eyes.

"Come now," he flicks his reigns and turns his horse away from the sea, face in the light once again. "Let us see how we may help the men. Time is no longer on our side."

* * *

**Storm's End**

The ancient castle of lore is nearly abandoned as Bran rides through the gates on Ghost's back. It's formidable walls close in around them. The ancient stronghold of House Baratheon juts out into the sea astride a sharp cliff, it's massive single tower thrusting defiantly into the sky like a raised fist.

"This is our command now!" Yara Greyjoy directs the men under her command. Obara and Theon follow her as she begins to take control of the fortifications. Bran watches them go for a moment, before riding on to the godswood, Meera following close behind.

In dusk, the wood is a solemn, shadowy place. Bran must duck to avoid hitting his head on the low branches of the tall, strapping pines and thick oats as he makes his way to the weirwood, encircled by a ring of ancient, tall stones. But within the ring, in sight of the solemn face of the tree, five small figures already kneel in prayer.

As Ghost growls as he treads nearer, and the shrouded figures rise. Lowering their hoods one by one, Bran is shocked to see four Children of the Forest. And Howland Reed.

"Father!" Meera gasps. "We aren't going back. We're here to fight."

"I know," Howland bows, planting his sword in the dirt at the direwolf's feet. "And so are we. You were right. You were both right. The time to hide is over. We will not abandon mankind again. The fires are almost upon us. In the morning, they will boil the sea. The Last War has begun."

* * *

**The Red Temple**

As the sun rises, the prisoners line the steps of the temple, a member of the Fiery Hand beside each one. Daenerys stands above them all, Jon and Euron at her side, the dragons circling overhead. Kinvarra stands with Eres, waiting to give the signal. The tension here is suffocating, filling her lungs like the thick smoke of the fires.

She sees Eres watching Jon. The guard had scarce let him out of her sight since the day she had threatened him in the camp. But Daenerys dare not confess that it was not his doubts that were troubling Eres. They were her own. It had been near a fortnight since she had first learned of the sacrifice that would be required. But time had not rested her mind.

As she walks forward to take her place beside the priestess, bare feet placed on the warm stone, one before the other, she sees the eyes of every prisoner looking upon her. In her ears, the Bloodstone whispers their crimes – slavers, rapists, murderers, tyrants – every crime she had sworn to strike down. But in their terrified eyes now, she can see only humans. Humans like the ones she burned in King's Landing, whispers the Bloodstone. Or the Tarlys. Or the masters in Mereen. She believed in herself then. If she stops now, what does that make her?

So instead, she raises her eyes away from the prisoners, looking out to the sea of faces on the ground, all looking up to her and chanting her name. Free men, women and children. This is what it all was for.

She should give a speech. But from atop the temple, none would hear her. Instead, she only raises her arms and an endless chorus of voices rises, chanting many names, all hers. And that is signal enough.

It is over in an instant. The daggers in the hands of the guards slice a single line across the throats of their captives. The blood comes spraying out, sinking deep into the grooves in the sides of the temple and running down in thick scarlet streams. The sky above turns red as the dragons roar in unison, a beautiful and dreadful song.

Lightbringer looks down and breathes fire, a massive torrent of dark flame pouring into the basin at the heart of the temple. The blood flows faster, the fires burn higher, the cheers cry louder and Jon takes her hand. All the while, she never lets her eyes leave her people. And then it begins.

* * *

**The Frosted Fury**

From the decks of the boat, moored some ways away from the camp, the crew can see the dragonfire as it sends the heavens blood red.

"What the hell is that?" Garin's jaw drops.

"The end of the world, I think," Sam shudders.

"Where's Arya?" Gendry rushes onto deck at the sound of the roar. He stops in his tracks as the others are turn to the temple.

"No! Why did you let her go with them alone!" Gendry tries to force off the boat, but Sandor blocks his path.

"This is her path, boy. She don't want to drag anyone else along."

"Her path is my path," he puts his foot down. "You warned me not to let her go!"

"Then wait for her!" Sandor grabs his arms to still him.

"You know she isn't coming back." Gendry looks square into the other man's eyes for a long while as the others stand back, unsure of what to do or say. Finally, Sandor stands down. Gendry leaps over the side of the boat. "Thank you," he says simply, before turning away and running as fast as he can towards the sounds of destruction.

* * *

**Daenerys' Camp**

On the edge of the tents, Arya and the three Faceless Men feel the earth shake beneath their feet. Stumbling, she turns back. And sees Gendry, hammer in hand, running behind her.

"What are you doing here?" she yells.

"I'm going with you!" he shouts back.

"I told you to stay on the boat!" Arya looks frantically between him and the out of control fires blazing atop the temple.

"We don't have time for this!" Jaquen grabs her arm. "It's happening now!"

"I came here to help!" Gendry pushes the assassin away.

"No." They turn to see Moqorro standing before them with four of Euron's guards. "You came here to die." A burst of fire shoots forth from his fists, catching Cut unawares. The Faceless Man bursts into flames and falls to the ground screaming. Arya rushes into battle. She cuts down one guard with _Heartsbane_, the huge sword feeling light as a feather, her arms growing ever stronger the further she loses feeling in them. Gendry crushes one man's skull with his hammer, and Jaquen kills the other two, but the fight draws the attention of more guards.

Crook is speared through the back as Arya and Jaquen cut down more attackers. But as they fight, Gendry sees Moqorro about to attack Arya from behind. And without hesitation, he charges.

"Ours is the Fury!" he shouts. Moqorro lets loose more fire, catching his sleeve alight, but he dodges again, ignoring the smolder, and gets in reach. A heavy swing cuts his hammer up through the air and crashes heavily down on the priest's chest. But as Moqorro falls, a final burst of fire catches Gendry in the face. Stumbling back, the young lord drops his hammer. A screaming guard hurls a javelin, piercing his chest.

Horrified, Arya cuts down the thrower before Gendry hits the ground and runs to his side. She turns him over, desperately pressing down on the blood-gushing wound and beating out the embers of burnt clothing. His face is singed, black and red and blistered. But his blue eyes loom cold and bright as ever.

"Do something!" she yells at Jaquen. "You have to save him!"

"We do not serve the god of life, girl." Jaquen stares solemnly. "We bring the gift of death. Best grant him a swift one."

"No! I can't!" Arya presses harder on the wound, but the blood keeps coming.

"Give him to me, girl," Moqorro coughs up blood, his own body only feet away. "Let the Lord of Light breathe back life to his lungs. He can join us in the eternal summer."

For a moment, Arya pauses. She looks to the priest, then back to Gendry. He smiles through burned and bloodied teeth.

"I love you, 'Arry," he breathes. In her mind, the wounds fade away and he is just the strong, bull-headed boy she met on the road so many years ago. And she remembers Beric. What he became. What Jon became.

"Life without death is no life at all," Jaquen places a hand on her shoulder, the anger gone from his voice. She leans her forehead down, gently touching it to his as she removes her gloves and takes his hands in hers. The ice soothes his blisters and he looks up in realization.

"I love you." Closing her eyes, they kiss a final time. Her dagger does the rest.

As ash falls down from the sky like snow, a girl named Arya Stark runs towards the temple of the Lord of Light, sword in hand. If seems as if time itself slows down. She is the last thing Gendry Baratheon will ever see in this life. And as the frost sparkles on his fingertips, peace at last falls over his face. In his mind, he is rising once again through the Riverlands, a strange little girl at his side. Forever young.

* * *

_A/N: So yeah, this was rough. I love Arya and Gendry so much, but in the end, their love was doomed to a magical moment in time for two lovers robbed of their childhood by powers beyond their control. I was listening to Djwaldi's "Home" as I wrote this section. I can only hope it reads as beautifully as it played in my mind. A Girl has nothing left to lose. The final battle has begun._


	48. Who We Are Part 1

**The Sick Ward**

"More water!" Missandei calls and Alys scurries off to fetch it. She is bent over a patient, one of the many victims of the plague spreading through the army camps and city streets. The army had marched near a fortnight past, but the war here carried on. _Better this way_, Missandei thinks. This work keeps her hands and mind busy, and not drifting to the coming storm. The queen who saved her, whom she had loved and served for years, was coming to rain fire upon them all. Could she have stopped it? Should she have defended her after the city fell? _No, do not think of such things. The past is the past and the dead are the dead. But these people still live, and may yet live a little longer if we succeed_.

"Is there something I can do to help?" Ser Argilac asks. But while the grim knight's big hands were masterful with a sword, they turned to clumsy stubs when handed lighter tasks.

"Fetch more water and bandages," Missandei sends him off in the same direction as Alys. A septa hurries by to dispense freshly mixed poultice, which Missandei slathers onto the patient's black, rotten boils. She had tied the disease to others she knew of from Essos and matched a treatment to Qyburn's theories of medicine. Now they can only pray it works.

But in answer to their prayers, the earth begins to shake violently. Cries rise up from all around as Alys and Argilac rush back to her side. She looks to the sky to see a blood red shadow stretching out from the rising sun on the eastern horizon.

"What in the seven hells is that?" Alys drops her water.

"Daenerys." Missandei knows. "It's begun."

* * *

**The Broken Shore**

On the cliffs above the sea, workers have toiled through the night under the direction of Tyrion Lannister and Harlan Dondarrion to build haphazard fortifications. It was a struggle, admittedly, for Tyrion. But weeks of commanding the work in the city have helped him learn what he can to remaster his lost voice. He can tell that Lord Dondarrion is impressed as he hammers the final pin into a hastily assembled scorpion bolt.

"You are as clever as the stories say," Harlan greets him, his heavy black cape hanging stiffly. "It is an honor to serve with you."

_A final honor before our deaths, you mean_, Tyrion thinks. _I've survived so much. Am I really going to die like this?_

He realizes Harlan is still talking. "Tell me, I've always wondered, was it truly you who killed Joffery?" Tyrion glares up with a silent fury at the question. And it seem the earth itself is offended, for at that moment the ground beneath them begins to violently shake.

On the front lines, Brienne rides her horse to the front of the lines on the very edge of the sea as panic begins to break out in the ranks. For the first time in years, she wears the quartered blue-and-rose sun and moon of her father's house over her armor. She feels naked without the marking of Stark service. But as she brings her horse to a stop, she notes these generals at last treat her as a lord, not some curious freak of a woman playing at being a knight.

"What's happening?" she calls out, nearly silenced by a frightened whinny from her horse as the rumbling continues.

"Only the gods know," Harry Strickland grabs her arm and pulls her down to the very edge of the cliffs. There, standing in black armor and red cape, King Griffin stands precariously close to the edge. And beyond him, there is the sea. Brienne gasps. In a scene beyond any nightmare, beneath the scarlet sky the water is bubbling, boiling and erupting into massive bursts of spray and stone.

"They're doing it!" Grif yells over the roar, his pale face even more ghostly white. "They're raising The Arm!"

* * *

**The Frosted Fury**

The crew is thrown to the deck as the sea erupts around them.

"Hold fast!" the captain, shouts from the helm as waves crash over the rail. "Get below deck!" The tumbled bodies scramble to their feet to take shelter. Another wave turns the boat nearly on its side. Sam slams to the deck and begins to roll. Another wave washes over the boards, filling his eyes and mouth with salty, scorching water. _Why is it so hot? _And then he sees it, as Sandor grabs him by his collar and hauls him to his feet.

Breaking through the surface of the sea before them, the peaks of mountains are rising up from the depths, unleashing tornadoes of steam and spray.

"It can't be…" Sarella stands agog, clinging to the ladder leading to the hold. "How could they…" but she cannot stare further, for Sandor shoves her and Sam beneath the deck, before turning back to the captain.

"Get us the hells away from that thing!"

* * *

**The Red Temple**

The very foundations of the earth may be shaking, but the mighty temple does not. Kinvarra holds her arms up into the air as the fires grow higher and the sea boils and the sky grows a darker shade of blood red. Finally, a sense of stillness falls over the shore. As the ash and smoke clears and the turbulent waters roll away, the jagged pathway across the sea becomes clear. Daenerys breaths in heavily the tastes of salt and smoke.

"It is done, Azor Ahai," Kinvarra declares. "But it is only beginning. This is what your ancestors sought to do, but in their rashness, the fires destroyed them. You will not face the same fate. For the fires bow to you."

"Your armies are ready," Darrio bows. "The Fiery Hand will clear the way."

"My dragons will clear the way," Daenerys stops him. "Your men may march, but once the lords of Westeros see what they truly face, they will have no choice but to yield. Or else their men will throw down their arms for them."

"And if they do not?" Kinvarra stops, fiery eyes zeroing in on her champion.

"Then they will face fire and blood," Daenerys does not give ground. "And be cleansed in the light of R'Hllor." Signaling the time for discussion is done, she turns away. Darrio hurries down the steps, the thousand men of the Fiery Hand falling in behind him as he descends. Jon and Daenerys march back to their dragons, wearing matching armor, embellished with steel flames.

"Gather your men," Daenerys commands Euron. "Find the Three-Eyed Raven. If he will not surrender, you know what to do."

As Euron runs off, Daenerys turns back to Jon, looking for a reaction. "I'm sorry it has to end this way. I know he was your brother."

"He chose his path," Jon leans in to kiss her. "As I have chosen mine. You are my queen, for now and always beneath our eternal sun."

They kiss for a moment longer before parting. And then Jon atop Rhaegal and Daenerys atop Lightbringer take flight above the temple. The flock of other dragons drops out of the red sky above, falling in behind them, and together they soar out over the Narrow Sea.

* * *

**Storm's End**

Yara Greyjoy watches from the walls surrounding the godswood. She thinks she sees one of the eerie little green men running through the shadows of the trees below and shudders. Their presence unnerves her. This castle unnerves her. It's very walls are lined with ancient magics, and her time with Euron has left her with a severe distaste for such arts. She turns back to her brother.

"You should take this," she extends a smooth amulet to Theon – a pointed black rock inlaid with a bloodstone, linked by a golden chain. "Bran said that Lord Hightower gave it to him. Apparently his father used it to ward off shades and demons."

"Like Euron?" he reads her intent.

"He's coming here. I can feel it. He knows that Bran is the real threat."

"You should take it," Theon tries to hand it back. "You're the queen."

"Aye, I am," Yara looks out, squinting into the crimson horizon as the waves pound against the fortress. "But when he gets here, I don't want anything coming between him and my blade when I put it through his skull."

Below them, in the heart of the godswood, Bran rests beneath the weirwood, under the watchful eyes of Meera and Howland Reed, as the Children wash him down and pour a steaming tea for him. One cuts into the bark with a dagger, sticky red sap oozing out. They rub it under his nose and eyes. The smell is rotten, but of home.

"You must reach deeper than ever before, Bran, if you are to find a way to stop the red god," Howland is instructing. "It will be dangerous. You must be careful not to lose yourself." Bran nods. Howland pulls his daughter close and whispers. "You ought to say your good-byes now. He may never return to us. And if he does, he may be something wholly different."

"No," Meera shakes her head. "He will return."

Bran doesn't think he was supposed to hear that. But he has, the sap and the tea already deepening his senses. As he breathes in again through the snow, the woods around him begins to fade. And then he is gone, with only the bitter scent left to keep company.

* * *

**The Red Temple**

Arya lets loose an inhuman scream as she slices out with _Heartsbane_, cutting down another guard in her path. Jaquen at her side, she stands on the temple steps, cluttered with the scattered bodies of the sacrifices and sticky with blood. The two killers have only added to the carnage as they fight their way towards the top. The warriors of the Fiery Hand are gone, but there are still plenty of guards from the sprawling camp below willing to stand between the God of Death and their Priestess of Life.

Arya does not count the number of swings. Nor does she count the bodies she leaves behind or the number of stairs she climbs. Time has slowed down to a blur, a furious rage. In every new face, she sees the fires burning Gendry, the arrows piercing Rickon, the dagger at her mother's throat and the sword swinging towards father's neck. Each new blow is a strike for vengeance dealt and vengeance denied. Every death has led to this moment. She is a water dancer and a Faceless Man, a force of life and death, sublime and brutal, light and heavy.

And she has reached the summit.

Her face and clothes are splattered with gore, but she does not notice. What the ice forming in her veins has not numbed, the fury has. There are still more guards here, but Jaquen takes them. Arya rushes on, past the fire pots, past the tents, to the priestess standing on the far side of the temple where it drops off to the sea below. By the time Kinvarra turns, it is too late, and the Valyrian blade has cut through her red robes, protruding bloody on the other side.

"Oh," she mouths. Arya pulls back on the sword and the body topples over the edge of the temple. It falls down, down to crash on the crags below. Only then does Arya see the Arm. Jutting out over the horizon, the ancient land bridge has been reformed: a path of spiked, uneven stone, rising and falling in peaks and valleys, still steaming, freshly birthed from the earth. Arya waits for it to all come crashing down. But nothing happens.

"What is called forth cannot be dispelled so easy," Jaquen stands beside her. She is startled to see the amount of blood on him, and tells herself not to look at her own hands.

"But I killed her."

"A girl killed a priestess," Jaquen points to the bridge far below. "Come. A man will find horses. Now we needs kill a god."

* * *

**The Broken Shore**

The panic among the ranks has at last begun to calm, turning to awe at the landmass that was raised from the deep to crash upon the shore before them. Some brave and foolish souls had already ventured out onto the bridge. But King Griffin's mind is on other matters.

"Where is Lady Hightower?" Grif calls out.

"She left in the night for the upper cliffs, your grace," General Strickland reports. "I haven't seen her since." Following that lead, Grif begins to climb the rocky path to the higher bluff, Tyrion, Brienne and Harlan close behind. They find Mallora Hightower in her grey robes, huddled around bubbling pots with a small crowd of what look like children. But when one turns, it becomes clear they are not human at all.

"Stay back!" Mallora warns.

"What are those creatures?" Harlan draws his sword and steps between the witch and his king. One of the little green-skinned imps flicks their wrist. A burst of blue energy knocks the blade away and Harlan hits the ground, clutching his hand. At that, Brienne and Grif draw their own swords, but Mallora rushes to stop the fight.

"They are Children of the Forest!" she insists. "They came in the night, by order of Prince Bran! They are here to help!"

Curious, Tyrion creeps closer to one of the Children, who eyes him up and down with huge, unblinking golden eyes before turning back to its work brewing potions and spells.

"Your grace, did you give this witch leave to practice her dark arts with these little monsters?" Harlan, clearly unnerved, picks himself back up. "Nothing good ever comes of magic."

"Lord Dondarrion, we have just seen the Arm of Dorne rise from the sea," Grif chides his Hand. "Spare me your concern, I will not have my hands tied. Whatever it takes to save our land. Lady Mallora, please, finish your work."

"It is already done, your grace," Mallora bows as the Children begin to chant in a shrill forgotten tongue. The air on the bluff thickens with tension and then… silence.

"What happened?" Brienne finally asks.

"They've cast a spell to ward off dragons," Mallora explains. "It ought to hold, for now. But it cannot bar their armies." She looks at Brienne, a reluctant look in her eyes. "Bring me Mya Baratheon. I may have need of her."

As Brienne runs off, Mallora strides to the edge of the bluff. The wind has begun to rise from the east, blowing her loose grey robes. Grif, Harlan and Tyrion stand beside her and watch. Grif's spine stiffens as he spies the first silhouettes against the red horizon. _Not birds. Too wide to be birds. Dragons._

* * *

**The Arm of Dorne**

Jon had been riding close behind Daenerys when he felt it. They were so close, Dorne was in sight. But something was wrong. It felt like the Wall. And then the leading dragon stopped. Screeching, the flock lost control, even Lightbringer. Jon clung to Rhaegal's back as the green dragon swerved up and backwards, nearly through its rider down into the rocky waters below. While he steadied his mount, Daenerys tried a second approach, with the same results. And so they had fallen back, landing at a wide spot on the bridge, near halfway across the sea. Here, Darrio and Eres await them, with all of the Fiery Hand behind them.

"Holy one, what is wrong?" Eres rushes to Daenerys' side.

"The dragons will not pass into Dorne," she answers.

"A spell," Eres glares at Jon. "Some dark powers of the Raven."

"This is nothing like anything I have ever seen Bran do," Jon insists. "But the Children of the Forest knew means to ward away dragons. It is why they would not cross the Wall. We just need more time, we can find a way around and attack from the rear."

"There is no time." Daenerys turns to Darrio and kisses him lightly on the cheek. "Lead my Fiery Hand to break upon them. Cut down whatever creatures have played these tricks upon us. I am done waiting." She steps aside as the army begins to march, and looks to Jon. "One more battle, my love. One more battle and we may rest in our people's freedom."

* * *

**King's Landing**

Smallfolk and nobles alike are crowded into the ruins of the Red Keep. The once-mighty fortress may be shattered, but, justified or not, it still carries a sense of security. Sansa surveys the crowd and sends Mycah to fetch more water for those taking shelter from the unknown horrors that had colored the sky. She sees Talla Tarly and a crowd of other more confident ladies waiting upon her. Crossing the room, her mind drifts back to the Battle of the Blackwater. Now, as all eyes follow her, she knows she stands where Cersei once stood. She eyes a flagon of wine nearby, but thinks better. She had already had to find separate shelter for a very drunk Rhea Florent, who was only adding to the anxiety. These people need leaders with clear minds.

"What should we do?" Talla asks. _An excellent question_, Sansa thinks. _What can we do, but pray? And there is already enough praying being done to keep every god in heavens and below awake 'til the end of time. They cannot aid in the battle. Not from here. But they can ease the fear of those not on the frontlines. Music had brought peace at the Blackwater and the river in the Night of the Dead. Here too, perhaps._

"Let us lead songs," she decides. "Keep their minds off of the battle."

"And the bleeding sky…" Allyria Dayne looks nervously through a hole in the roof.

"I don't know any songs," Gilly blushes shyly.

"They're not hard," Sansa smiles, placing a comforting hand on the pregnant woman's shoulder. "Let's try Gentle Mother."

At first, there are only a few voices, but soon more chime in and Sansa leaves them to their devices while she runs to help Mycah and the servants pass out water in bread. They are in for a long wait, she thinks. Perhaps the last wait they will ever know.

_"Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_

_Save our sons from war, we pray._

_Stay the swords and stay the arrows,_

_Let them know a better day."_

* * *

**The Broken Shore**

The riderless dragons still swoop low through the sky, dropping in and out of sight among the pitch black clouds gathering overhead. A few stubborn ones still fly in within range, sputtering bursts of fire, only to be repelled once again. This time a cheer goes up from the armies as a steadily-aimed scorpion bolt strikes one such dragon in the side. The great beast disappears back into the clouds, crying in pain.

Grif remains on the bluff, eyes never straying from the bridge in the distance. The shock and awe of the initial chaos has long passed, replaced with the mind-numbing tension of waiting for something, anything to happen.

"The men grow restless, your grace," Strickland warns.

"Then remind them of what they are fighting for," Grif tells him. "We cannot lose our homes because impatient knights became distracted."

"Your grace," Harlan calls to him. The Hand has been watching the distance with a far-eye. He hands the device to Grif. "The army is coming."

In the camp below, Brienne continues to search for Mya Baratheon. Nigel Tudburry, the nervous squire, hastily leads her through the maze of makeshift tents towards the outer paths leading up to the foothills above.

"My lady went this way, m…my lady," Nigel stammers. His short legs can only carry him so fast, and Brienne quickly strides ahead of him on the path. She can see a tall woman in armor and a black-and-yellowed checkered surcoat rising over the next hill.

"Lady Baratheon!" Brienne calls out. "The king has summoned you!"

"Stay back," Mya wheels around, pointing her hammer threateningly towards Brienne. "I know damn well what he wants with me. Same thing the red witch wanted from my brother."

Nonetheless, Brienne walks forward, taking a conciliatory posture. "I don't know what he wants with you, but the battle is nearly upon us. He has commanded your presence."

"Yes, well, I've never been good at following orders." The hammer swings out and Brienne barely has time to dodge and draw her sword at the same time. _Oathkeeper_ is in her hand now and cuts against the hammer before Mya can strike again. Impressed, Mya steps back, reasserting her posture.

"Please, my lady, be reasonable," Brienne keeps a safe distance. But she has forgotten Nigel. The squire rushes from behind, hacking at her ankle with his small dirk, but it does not break armor. Brienne turns, shoving the boy backwards down the hill, but Mya takes the time to charge. The hammer swings closer this time, but Brienne recovers quickly. They circle against each other and Brienne says a silent prayer of thanks for her Valyrian Steel. No other blade would hold up against the strength of the hammer.

But such a weapon is heavy and unbalanced. Brienne watches for her opponent's compensations and leanings. Finally, when Mya slides to the right on a blow, Brienne kicks hard at her left knee. Shouting in pain and fury, she drops to the ground and Brienne brings the pommel of _Oathkeeper_ down hard upon her head.

"Don't get back up until I tell you," Brienne kicks her away from the dropped hammer. "You're going to see the king."

* * *

**The Weirwood Plane**

When he opens his eyes, Bran is floating in a shallow pool, the surface covered with red weirwood leaves. He is as cold as he was beyond the Wall. As he stands, the leaves part and he sees the face reflected in the black water beneath – Bloodraven.

"It is truly me, this time," the old man extends a hand to help Bran up. The last time Bran had seen that face it was a trick of the Night King. But he has come to fear Bloodraven nearly as much as the White Walkers. "It was very brave of you to leave the Isle of Faces, boy. But I did not choose you for your bravery. I chose you to survive."

"I know what you did," Bran pulls away. "You abandoned your people! The Children would have had me leave them all to die."

"And our ways would have survived, as we have for millennium," Bran sees more figures watching from the somber blue haze in the distance. _The old Ravens_, he knows. He can feel a thousand eyes watching. "Now you have dragged them into mortal peril along with you. A selfish fool's courage will wipe out what countless generations have kept alive!"

"If we cannot protect our own people, we do not deserve to survive!" Bran shouts back, his anger growing. The water at his feet begins to stir.

"Humans have been a plague on this land from the day they first arrived! Let them burn in the fires of their own making. The Raven must survive."

"You are a human!"

"Not anymore," Bloodraven answers coldly. "Nor are you, no matter what you tell yourself at night. Tell me boy, do you look at that pretty little frogeater and think you can have a normal life? Humans tore down the forests, humans set fire to the Children, they brought forth dark powers to bend the world to their image and nearly destroyed us all. Why would you want that?"

"And the Children created the White Walkers out of fear, and nearly destroyed everything!" Bran clenches his fists and the water vibrates more. "People make mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes!"

"And is it your life goal to make that point, Brandon Stark? Perhaps this is my fault. I made a mistake in choosing you." Bloodraven turns and begins to fade back into the mist.

"How many?" Bran calls after him. "How many were there? How many children like Euron and Mallora did you call and leave broken until you found one with the right powers, one you could control?" Slowly, Bloodraven turns back and says a single word.

"Enough."

With that, the old man vanished in a shower of weirwood leaves. As the crimson hands brush over his face, Bran turns back to see the spectral forms of Tytos Blackwood and Leyton Hightower watching him.

"I need help!" he pleads with his former mentors. "I have to find a way to stop Daenerys. Some magic, some weapon, something to end the attack!" The earth shakes again.

"I think you know a way, boy," Leyton eyes him ominously. "Have you come to find absolution for taking it? King's blood holds great power, as my daughter knows."

"I…" Bran looks back at the spectral eyes in the distance and remembers the visions of blood he had seen on the Isle of Faces. The damage they had wrought. "Would it work?"

"If it did, what would be the cost?" Tytos asks.

"Then what can I do? Is there another way? There has to be!"

Silently, Tytos and Leyton both raise their arms, pointing off in the distance. There, shrouded by the blue mist, wait a small, huddled family. One that is all too familiar. Bran feels himself begin to run, the cold water splashing up at his feet. The closer he gets, the fainter the taste of the bitter sap grows. And then the fog is cleared. And standing before him are his family.

Father. Mother. Robb. Rickon. And the direwolves, Grey Wind, Summer, Lady and Shaggy Dog lurking half in the fog behind them. All just as he remembers.

"Bran, you can walk!" Rickon runs up to him, looking up with eager, relieved eyes. "Have you come to stay with us?" The earth has stopped shaking. Bran opens his mouth, he wants to shout 'Yes', he wants to embrace his brother. But he cannot. Instead, he looks up into the face of his father and drops to his knees in the pool, as if his legs have again forgotten to work. Father kneels, placing his hands on Bran's shoulders, dark blue eyes looking sadly into Bran's own. He feels tears begin to come, they leak forth blood-red.

"I don't know what to do…" he stammers.

"Yes, you do," Father speaks, as smooth and reassuring as in life, and in Bran's dreams ever since. "You can feel it on the wind Bran, in the flow of the water and the rustling of the leaves. You know what I taught you. Where is the truth, Bran? Where is the justice?"

"I have to stop this!" Bran insists as he feels a breeze blow down from somewhere in the nether. "I'm the only one who can!"

"You are never the only one, Bran. Let the fog blow away. To be alone is a choice. And the lone wolf starves, but the pack survives."

"My pack… our family… You're dead! You're all gone. And so are Jon and Arya!"

"Are we?" Father stands as the breeze begins to blow the blue fog away. And then he sees them. Stretching away into the abyss. So many faces. So many he knew, and so many he does not. Lyanna. Jojen. Maester Luwin. Ser Rodrik. He turns back to Father.

"No one is ever alone, Bran. They just have to open their eyes. You cannot control this world. But you must have faith. Faith that the spring will come."

"Bloodraven said…"

"You are my son," Father embraces him and one by one, his family draws near. He feels their hands on him. "Only you can choose who you are. As must we all."

* * *

**The Arm**

The steaming rock beneath their feet begins to shake again. One of the small summits nearby is cracked and glowing, still molten within.

"If something went wrong at the temple," Jon looks to Eres, concerned, "could the bridge break apart. Does Kinvarra need to hold it together?"

"What would you know of things going awry?" Eres scowls, hand on sword.

"Kinvarra is dead," Daenerys says bluntly, bidding her guard to stand down. "Slain by the same hand that slew the Night King."

"Arya…" Jon murmurs. "I didn't know!"

"You were supposed to kill her!" Eres is at his throat again, her sword out now.

"Stop!" Daenerys commands. "It does not matter now. What matters is the ground on which we stand. It isn't breaking apart is it. It's growing."

"Yes," Eres confirms. "As it is meant to be. With the advance of our forces, R'Hllor will grow stronger! The deep fires will rise up and reshape the west in the name of the Lord of Light. A new paradise will be born from the ashes of the false kings!"

"You mean this is going to destroy Westeros?" Jon's pulse quickens.

"Not all of it," Eres presses her sword closer to his throat. "But enough. I see fear in your eyes, Northman. Are you still loyal? Will you sacrifice your home to free this world? You know the legend. Azor Ahai must kill what they most love."

"Put your blade away!" Daenerys pulls her back. "It is not Jon you have to convince." The fire in her veins pulses as the bridge continues to burn and quake. "It's me. Make me believe that I can free my home this way. Make me believe, or we will all burn."


	49. Who We Are Part 2

**The Frosted Fury**

After some time, the water had calmed and the crew of the Manderly vessel had questioned their next steps. But now the peninsula is shaking again, growing and bursting in places with fresh magma. From the deck, they can see the dragons overhead.

"We need to do something," Sam insists, wringing his hands.

"What?" Sandor points. "Look at that! What's you plan of attack, mighty Lord Tarly? You going to joust a fooking mountain?"

"Tarly's right," Sarella says quietly from the back of the group.

"Are you mad, too?" Garin's jaw drops.

"We were sent here to find Arya Stark and bring her home," Sarella insists. "Arya is chasing the Targaryens. The Targeryens are somewhere on that giant magic rock."

"With dragons!" Garin flails his arms. "Don't forget the dragons!"

Young Gyles Farwynd backs away nervously. "I don't have any part of this. I'm staying on the boat."

"We all swore a vow," Ser Myles stands beside Sarella and Sam. "Are we cowards, to hide from our cause when the darkness falls? I say no!" The kingsguard knight raises his mace defiantly in the air, challenging the two remaining holdouts. Garin looks up at Sandor. The big man glances nervously across the sea towards the fiery peninsula.

"Fine." He finally growls. "Turn the bloody ship around. But I'm doing this for the girl, not for you shits. Any of you catch fire, you'll see me keep right on running."

* * *

**The Broken Shore**

Grif watches from the bluffs as the charging men of the Fiery Hand draw closer into view. Their battle-cries can be heard now.

"There's only a thousand of them," Strickland notes. "Where are the rest of her people? She has tens of thousands."

"Freedmen, not soldiers," Grif notes. "She wanted a quick battle. Honorable."

"Honorable but foolish," Strickland socffs. "They don't stand a chance. Not without their dragons. Not coming off that bridge. We outnumber them ten to one."

"The warding spell is fragile," Mallora warns. "If even one of their number gets past your lines to attack the Children, it could all fall apart. And these are no ordinary men. They are the swords of the Lord of Light, and their fires have never burned stronger."

"Then we must hold strong," Grif commands Strickland. "See to the men."

On the landbridge, Darrio Naharis, sword waving in the air, leads the charging army from atop a huge black stallion. As the shore of Dorne comes into sight, he calls out to the Lord of Light on high and his blade bursts into flame.

"For Daenerys! For R'Hllor! For the Dawn!"

From atop elephants waiting on the bluffs above, the first volley of Western arrows comes raining down, but the men are undaunted. At the point where the bridge meets the mainland, two great spires curl up to the sky. At Daario's command, archers begin to climb the spires. A shield wall of the Golden Company men blocks the narrow end of the bridge, but the riders charge on. The men on each of the flanks leap down from the bridge, landing waist deep on the water, and rush the shore. Another volley of arrows falls from above, but Darrio does not look away from the shield wall. Finally, he can see the whites of the eyes in the men in his way and he calls out in High Valyrian.

From the spires behind them, a cavalcade of burning arrows let loose down on the heads of those behind the shields. He lowers his burning sword and a burst of flame explodes in front of his mount as he crashes down upon them. Further back in the ranks, General Strickland watches in horror as his men collapse, screaming and ablaze.

"Hold!" he screams as he draws his sword. He watches the inferno at the foot of the landbridge as dark shadows begin to emerge. And out from the flames charges the leader of the Fiery Hand on his black steed. "Loose!" Strickland calls, and arrows rain down on the attackers. But as he looks up to the bluffs, he sees more enemy soldiers scaling the cliffs to attack the archers. Turning back to the front attack, he lowers the visor on his gilded helm. "Charge!"

The western army leaps forward, breaking with full force against the Fiery Hand as they flood down off the bridge. Bodies fall all around him as Strickland hacks down and out with his sword until he finds himself helm to helm with Darrio. The two generals swing their horses towards each other in the midst of the bloody chaos and they are upon each other in seconds. Not hesitating at the sight of the fearsome burning sword, Strickland brings his own blade down.

"For Daemon! For Bittersteel!" Sparks fly back in his face as they duel, but Strickland does not relent. He rains down blow after blow, furiously hacking away. The fire is weakening the sword, he can see. If he can only keep this up a while longer…. A final blow cleaves Darrio's blade in two. But the force of the break sends Strickland lurching forward in his saddle. His horse dips closer to Darrio, who stabs down into the beasts neck with the molten broken sword.

Strickland topples down as his horse collapses and Darrio leaps down after him, drawing his arakh. Strickland blocks the attack and scrambles to his feet. Darrio lashes out again, moving quicker with the smaller weapon. He spins and kicks, arm reeling out with the curved blade, backing Strickland away through the battle, over bodies of men and horse alike. And then the arakh lands, it's curve wrapping around Strickland's hand at the hilt. In an explosive tear of pain, his wrist cleaves half off and the sword drops. The next spin of the arakh buries deep into his side. Strickland pulls himself off the blade and stumbles backwards, blood pouring out over his gilded armor. His eyes turn up to the bluffs, where his king awaits. His final thought is that he will die at home at last.

From the bluffs, Grif watches through the smoke and flames at the crushing mob of bodies and steel. He looks to the archers and the elephants, also under attack. And then he looks away to see Brienne of Tarth's return, dragging Mya Baratheon in chains.

"The Lady Baratheon, your grace," she throws the captive down at his feet. "I caught her deserting." Grif looks down at her, then over to Harlan, Tyrion and Mallora, and further back to where the Children watch him with their unblinking golden eyes. He turns back to the battle.

"We're losing…" he whispers. "The line will not hold."

He turns back to see Mallora lifting Mya back to her feet and handing her off to the Children. The old woman looks at him, a heavy sadness in her orange eyes.

"Will it be done, your grace?"

"What do you mean?" Harlan asks. "What's happening?"

Grif does not answer. Instead, he looks down into Mya's eyes one last time. The old Baratheon fury is gone. Only a silent resignation remains. _Whatever it takes_, he tells himself. _A good king must do whatever it takes_. He draws Blackfyre. "I will do it myself."

"Your grace, what are you doing?" Brienne joins Harlan in protest as the Children drag Mya away to a large rock on the edge of the bluff, shoving her down on her chest, head hanging freely over the edge. Mallora stands back silently as the wind grows fiercer, tearing at her grey robes and hair. Grif pushes the others aside and marches solemnly towards them. He stops at the edge of the rock and places the point of the blade by Mya's face.

"Mya Baratheon, know that you die today for the good of the realm. When the clouds of war at last clear, they will write songs for you, I swear."

"What do I care for songs?" she mutters, face hanging out over edge of the rock. "Don't hide behind excuses. All kings must make sacrifices. I know that all too well."

Silently, Grif hoists his arms into the air. But he stops, as his crimson cape tugs at his shoulders in the wind and the blood red sun glares in his eyes. The sword of his ancestors stands straight as an arrow in the air. He can see the swing in his mind's eye. See the head drop into the sea. He can see the blood flow against the flames below. Blood and fire and fire and blood. The Targaryen legacy.

Slowly, _Blackfyre_ lowers to his side. Turning back to the others, he sheathes the blade. "Lord Dondarrion, bring me my helm." He reaches up and removes the ruby-studded iron crown from his head and feels his fair flow freely in the breeze. He looks to Mallora. "Free her chains. This is not how we defend our kingdom." As the old witch almost smiles, he marches away from the edge of the cliff, Brienne falling behind. Harlan waits there, waiting with his black helm. Grif takes it at places it carefully over his own head. He looks down at the soldiers tasked with guarding him – Horpe knights, Golden Company men and more from every kingdom.

"This army has brought their fires to our shores!" he calls out. "But we have a fire of our own! They see seven kingdoms in chaos and disorder. They see backstabbers and cutthroats. They may be right. I have seen the worst of humanity. But I have also seen the best. And that is what we defend here today. That we can change. That we can rise again! Stand with your king, and let us show them not what we are, but what we can dream to be!"

With that his sword is drawn. He hears Brienne and Harlan draw theirs' behind them and as one, the men before him follow suit, chanting.

"Blackfyre! Blackfyre! Westeros!"

* * *

**Storm's End**

Beneath the weirwood, Meera watches Bran closely as he lies still, blank eyes covered by weirwood leaves. She can hear her father and the Children moving about behind her, but she does not shift her gaze until Bran snaps upright, gasping for a rasping breath and tearing the leaves away from his face. She rushes to his side to offer a drink of water, the Children close behind to attend.

"He's coming," Bran finally speaks. "Euron's coming here on a dragon."

"Ready the sentries!" Howland commands. As the guards mobilize Bran looks up to the flock of gulls and crows that have gathered in the trees above. His eyes roll back white in his head, and with a cacophony of calls, the birds take flight.

Atop the walls, Obara Sand runs past the sentries sounding the alarm.

"Where are the Greyjoys?" she asks their captain. The Ironborn warrior points up to the top of the castle's massive drum tower. By the time Obara reaches the top of that great stone monstrosity, speeding up countless winding stairs, she is gasping for breath. She finds Theon and Yara tending to a scorpion bolt they have assembled atop the tower.

"What is it?" Theon asks as she bends over, catching her breath.

"What else can it be?" Yara climbs behind the controls of the scorpion and begins to taut the levers. "Euron is bringing his storm here. Let's remind him what this castle's name is."

Still not quite in view over the horizon, the great, pale-red dragon Euron claimed in Asshai beats its wings in deadly determination over the sea below. Its back is crawling with men like barnacles on a leviathan, each armed to the teeth and ready for slaughter. And at the head rides Euron himself, in his glistening Valyrian armor. His one good eye squints through the slit of his tentacled helm, while the smelted glass candle in his left socket smolders. The Raven has hidden himself behind the walls of Storm's End like a coward. But there are no walls high enough to keep out a dragon.

They pass through the mouth of Shipbreaker Bay, Cape Wrath to the left and Tarth to the right. For a moment, Euron considers pausing to rain fiery doom down upon the Sapphire Isle, but thinks better. The fun can come later, once his hands have crushed the cripple's skull and the last of his brother's pathetic children lie dead at his feet. He urges the dragon onward, faster across the bay. And then he sees the birds.

A flock of scores - gulls, crows, and all manner of seabirds – flying in tandem towards him like a living crowd. He can sense it, The Raven's doing.

"Hold fast!" he yells to the men behind them. The dragon breathes flames that cut through the air with a deafening roar, setting some birds alight, but the rest fly apart, higher and to the sides, before descending en masse upon his men. Euron clutches tighter to the dragon's back as the flock strikes. He is jarred left and white as birds plummet against him, ringing against his armor. Behind him, he hears the men screaming as sharp beaks and talons peck and tear at loose flesh, sending many plummeting down, down to the sea below. But the dragon, unfazed, flies on. And Storm's End is at last in sight.

* * *

**The Arm of Dorne**

A pale horse treads swiftly over the uneven, wet and rocky peninsula. On its back rides Arya Stark, sword strapped to her back, bent over low in the saddle, eyes strict on the path ahead. Jaquen rides close behind. Even as steam still rises from the fresh rock all around, Arya feels colder than ever. Her bare hands are fully white and ice now. Familiar hands that had haunted her dreams for so long. Hands she thought she killed. She can feel frost growing around her eyes. And as she rides on, she knows Daenerys is only a short distance ahead. Daenerys and Jon. And the end.

Not so far away, at the fiery heart of the Arm, Daenerys herself faces down Eres as Jon watches cautiously from a distance.

"I have fought for you!" Eres is shouting, sword drawn against her savior. "Thousands have died for you! You cannot turn back now! You are Azor Ahai."

Daenerys has her own halberd drawn and pointed at her guardian. But it is not her former guardian that she sees. The spectral form of the Bloodstone Emperor, with its shadowy, ever-changing face, lurks high behind Eres, taunting her as the fire burns in her veins.

"I came to free Westeros, not destroy it," she declares. "That is my destiny, not this!"

"Do not turn weak now!" Eres yells back, her voice dripping and echoing with the rhythms of the Bloodstone. "You saw for yourself when you burned King's Landing, you cannot rebuild without tearing down what was there before. The people will never change, they are blinded to their own chains. Only you can make the choice for freedom. You were chosen for this very purpose. You are Azor Ahai! You know this to be true."

_It is true, isn't it? _That is what she has always believed. What she has lived for – the cries of "Mhysa", the grateful hands of the freed. _How can that be wrong?_ Daenerys turns to Jon, hoping he will say something. But he only stares blankly ahead, sword held limply in hand.

"I thought things could be different," he finally speaks. "But they weren't. The wheel will never stop turning. Not until it's broken."

"And it is only broken by fire and blood," Daenerys lowers the halberd. She knows the answer. Doesn't she? The Bloodstone smiles in her mind's eye, but she blocks it out, forcing herself to focus on the innocents. This is for them, she vows. And the earth begins to shake again beneath her feet.

* * *

**The Frosted Fury**

An arrow notched in her bow, Sarella leads the crew of the boat, hastily moored on the edge of the Arm, as they creep through the jagged precipices of the peninsula.

"What are we supposed to do once we find them?" Garin asks.

"Grab the Starks and run," Sandor barks. "And kill anyone that gets in our way."

As if on cue, a burning arrow flies through the air, barely missing Sam's head. Sarella pivots and looses her own arrow towards the unseen assailant.

"Take cover!" she shouts as they duck behind a rock. Looking up, she spies a spark of fire and ducks as another burning arrow comes shooting down. From across the precipice, Eres watches the intruders, knowing they have come to slay her master. She notches another arrow, lit with the flames of her god. This one hits a crack in the stone and a burst of fire explodes, sending the enemies scattering. She shoots again, this time catching one in back, a knight with a white cape.

On the other side, Ser Myles drops down, grunting. Sandor grabs his arm and heaves him to shelter as Sam rushes to examine the wound.

"Garin, can you help?" he calls, as he extinguishes the fire, the arrow still embedded.

"I don't have any water!" Garin throws his hands up.

"I'm fine," Myles grunts, tearing the arrow out himself. But as the blood spreads on his dirty Kingsguard cloak, it is clear he is not. He wipes his brow, smearing the skull painted on his face. "We need to keep moving. Sarella…" He looks up to see the archer has climbed higher. She squints, searching for a sign of her foe.

"Go, now!" Sarella shouts to the others. They rise, and with them the opposing archer moves. And she is waiting. Her arrow catches Eres hard in the shoulder, knocking the fiery warrior back from her perch. Eres rises, ready to fight again, but stops. Azor Ahai is in danger.

* * *

**Storm's End**

"The dragon is here!" some guard shouts from the walls as the horns blow. And sure enough, from the top of the drone tower, Yara can see it, closing in, a sickly red beast looking half like a skinned corpse. Arrogant as ever, Euron makes no attempt at stealth. Instead, the dragon comes roaring down upon the walls. Men leap from its back down onto the parapet as fire pours forth from the hideous mouth, blasting down upon the ancient enchanted stones.

"Go to Bran, now!" Yara shouts at Theon and Obara, who reluctantly leave her with the two men tasked with aiming the scorpion. She stares across at the dragon on the wall, the sun sparkling off the armor of its rider. At last, she has found him. And he has found her. The dragon leaps from the burning walls towards the tower.

"Left!" she calls, and the bolt shifts. "Up!" And then she pulls back on the lever and the bolt fires. An imperfect shot, it tears through the dragon's wing and sends it spiraling on its side. It slams into the side of the huge tower and grabs hold of the stone. With a roar, flames begin to torch the walls, melting stone to stone.

Yara jumps down from the bolt and rushes to the edge of the tower. Directly below her she can see him. _By the gods, is his armor Valyrian steel?_ Something about the sight at last tips her fury over the edge and, sword and hand, she leaps from the parapet. The air rushes up to meet her as she falls until she slams against the dragon's back. Euron turns. Even beneath the tentacled helmet he wears, she can feel his blue-stained smile. She begins to slip, but lashes out with her sword. Euron catches it with his mailed hand, but the attack causes the dragon to twist, ripping out the side of the tower that begins to collapse, sliding stones and beast and riders alike down to the ground below in a thunderous crash.

As the dust settles, Euron picks himself up as his dragon rises, one ruined wing hanging limp at its side. But a dragon on the ground is still a dragon. He looks for a moment for Yara, but leaves it be, climbing back amount. The Raven is calling.

From the godswood, Theon and Obara can see the tower fall as they arrive by the weirwood stone circle.

"Yara!" Theon calls out, turning to run back, but Howland stops him.

"Focus boy. Defend your prince!"

Theon takes a panicked look back to where the tower and his sister stood a moment before, then back to Bran beneath the tree. He draws his sword and paces to the edge of the stone circle. The earth vibrates with heavy footsteps. And then the trees on the edge of the godswood burst into flame. Ghost howls. Theon grasps at the pendant around his neck.

"His shades cannot pass these stones," Howland assures.

"No," Theon shakes his head. "But he can." With a fiery burst, the red dragon charges out from within the trees. Euron leaps down from its back and draws his duel cutlasses.

"Come and face me Raven!" he calls out. "Oh, wait." He laughs. "You can't. I guess I'll come to you." Euron charges the ring, his dragon behind him. The first burst of flames hits one of the ancient stones hard, shattering it into a dozen fragments. Through the smoke, the Children fire blue bursts of energy, turning the attacking beast to the side. Ghost lunges out, snarling, with Obara and Meera run close behind.

But where they left, now Euron strides through the glowing embers where the runestone once stood, the colors of his new armor rippling. Theon freezes. It is that night at sea all over again. The sword shakes in his hand, but he cannot bring himself to strike.

"Ah, there you are nephew!" Euron calls. "I'll deal with you later, just like I did Yara."

"You'll deal with me, first," Howland stands between the pirate and Bran.

"With pleasure." As Euron laughs, shadows begin to peel off of him. Howland attacks, striking and parrying against his opponent's cutlasses even as the cries of the guards and the Children go up around him as the shadows cut them down.

Outside the ring, the dragon breathes fire still. Wounded, it moves slowly as Ghost runs in circles around it before finally clenching his fangs around the scaly tail. It roars in pain and turns sharply, trying to reach the direwolf, but tripping clumsily. In that moment, Meera scrambles onto its back and buries her three-pronged spear deep between the scales of its neck. Another roar of pain and Obara charges. The head whips around, away from Ghost and towards Meera. And as it flails past, Obara thrusts up and buries her spear deep in its eye. With a final sputter of fire and a howl of victory from Ghost, it collapses to the ground.

Euron barely notices the dragon's death, his cutlasses a deadly whirlwind of steel. Howland is on his heels, struggling desperately to match parry to blow. His opponent is pushing him back, closer and closer to the weirwood. And then he feels the cold, shadowy blade in his back. The shade dissipates as quickly as it strikes. At last, Howland notices how silent it is. The rest all are dead. He falls backwards, his head landing at Bran's feet. A final wish of hope dies on his lips.

With nothing now between him and Bran, Euron wrenches off his helmet and tosses aside, shaking his hair free.

"Is Bloodraven still in there somewhere, cripple boy?" he leers down at Bran. "I'd like to kill him, too, while we're here." Bran says nothing. "Come on now, do something! Where are those great powers that I was too dangerous to have? I know you have more up your sleeve than some fucking birds! Give me everything, so I can cut it down." Still noting. "Come on, boy! Face me!" He raises his cutlass. And in that moment, Theon moves. He is at his uncles side before he can turn, but his sword clatters harmlessly against the Valyrian plate. As quick as the attack is over, Euron's blade pierces his own armor. With a gasp, Theon desperately stabs at Euron's neck before falling to the ground beside Howland's body.

Euron laughs off the wound and turns around at the sound of approaching feet. Ghost pads, growling, back towards the tree, Obara and Meera at its side. And behind them, battered, bruised and bloodied, but still standing, is Yara, a bow in hand.

"By god, do I have to kill you again?" He recognizes Obara. "And you too? Here to avenge your sisters are you? I hope you put up a better fight then your precious prince." He begins to stalk ominously forward, spinning his cutlasses. Yara fires one arrow, then another, each clattering harmlessly off of his armor. He stops.

"On second thought, you're starting to bore me. What fun can a fly give a god? Let's see you dance instead." He throws his head back and the shadows fill his good eye. But nothing comes. The shades catch in his throat like a choking, oily cough. He gasps for air in confusion, his hand grabs at his neck. With a splatter of blood, he tears free Lord Hightower's pendant. It burns in his hand. He looks back at Theon, bleeding out in the dirt, head cradled in Bran's lap.

Theon smiles, blood in his teeth. "Good-bye, uncle."

Euron spins back to Yara, as she looses another arrow. Before he can react, the point tears through his throat. Blood and shadow flow forth, running down his armor as he falls back and lands heavily on the ground. The fire in his dragonglass eye sputters out. And as the shadows drag him down, down beneath the sea of his mind, he sees a raven black against the sky, taunting him as he sinks away forever.

* * *

**The Broken Shore**

The dead on the ridges of the bluff have piled so high they serve as their own barricades. Beneath his black armor, Grif breathes heavily. Blood drips from _Blackfyre_. He is surrounded by Horpe knights and his own Golden Company. Many of the Fiery Hand have fallen. But not enough. Not nearly enough. He looks back to the horizon, where the dragons still circle, waiting for a chance to break through and lay waste to his land. To his people. And he brings down his sword again, crying out another battle-cry.

"Your grace!" He turns to see Brienne at his side. "We're going to be overrun! You need to fall back to safety!"

"No!" Grif turns back the battle. "They will not pass!"

Behind the lines, Mallora Hightower waits with the Children and Tyrion, watching the battle unfold below. There had been fighting on the other bluffs, where the white metal of _Dawn_ could be seen in Edric Dayne's hands, or the shrieking Manwoody battle-cries could be heard. But the real fight was here, all the enemy forces were gathered beneath this ridge. The Fiery Hand knew where their true target was. Her and the Children desperately holding together their spell.

"Hightower!" She turns to see Harlan Dondarrion limping towards them, his black cloak tattered, the purple lightning enamel on his breastplate cracked. "Do something!"

"My lord, what do you mean?"

"You are a witch, are you not? We are about to fail! Have you no spells that can save us? I know it was you who called down lightning at Summerhall."

For a moment Mallora is shocked. For as long as she had known Harlan, the man had been violently opposed to magic. But now she sees the desperation in his eyes and nods. Getting the reassurance he sought, Harlan turns away, letting glimpse of a grievous wound in the side of his armor as he hobbles away.

"My lord, your side…" she calls after him.

"Leave me be, woman," he grunts, collapsing to sit atop a rock overlooking the battlefield. "Go and do your work."

Back on the front lines, Grif feels another sharp pain in his side. He does not look at the fresh wound, but kills the man who dealt it. But it is too much. The line is faltering. But the Fiery Hand is all in climb now, he realizes. All in one place.

"Fall back!" he shouts, and Brienne echoes the call. "Fall back!" But as he turns to command his men, an arrow strikes him, then another. He stumbles as the retreat begins. Looking up, he sees Darrio climbing over the pile of bodies in front of them, bloody arakh in hand. The general charges, but his path is blocked by Brienne.

"Go!" she shouts. And this time he listens. Rolly Duckfield is at his side now, dragging him up the bluff as the men retreat. As he is pulled away, he watches Brienne duel Darrio. She dodges and parries each spinning cut, stabbing out with _Oathkeeper_, but dealing no blows. Instead she moves back and up, step by step, leading Darrio up the ridge and all his men behind him.

At the top of the bluff, as the Western army retreats, one figure strides silently forward. Mallora Hightower feels the wind catch in her robes and feels the energy in the air. There is no magic without sacrifice, she remembers her father's words, and thanks the gods that the king had chosen wisely. Let it end here.

Brienne is nearly at the top of the ridge now when, from behind her she hears a thunderous clap of thunder. In the sudden moment, Darrio looks up, and she plunges her Valyrian steel into the heart of his breastplate, pushing him back down over the cliff. And she turns and runs as the heavens above unleash an onslaught of destruction. With Mallora's hands held high, a mighty wind tears down upon the forces of the Fiery Hand, and with it, bolts of lightning rain down. The ridge erupts in a thousand explosions as the magics of the old gods of storm and wind drown out their cries to the god of fire.

As the dust clears, Brienne stands alone atop the ridge as Mallora collapses into her arms. Before them, the battlefield is cratered and burnt, the whole of the Fiery Hand slain, their red armor singed black by lightning.

"Did it work?" Mallora asks with a rasping voice. Brienne looks down to see the old woman's eyes have been scorched and blinded.

"Yes," she gasps, lowering the witch gently to the ground as she slowly allows a sense of victory to set in. "Yes, yes it worked!" A cheer rises up from the army behind her. But the celebration is short-lived. Like a trumpet of doom harkening from the seven hells, a new rumble rises from the peninsula. The valley below cracks open and the fire breaks free.

* * *

**The Arm of Dorne**

When Daenerys sees the pale horses racing down the path, she knows the doom has come. She can feel it beginning on the shores of Westeros. It is the end. But for whom?

"Arya," Jon recognizes the rider.

"Stay," she commands him. She made the mistake of letting him face his sister once before. But she knows now, whatever is riding that horse is no longer Arya Stark. She is something more. Something meant for her. She plants her feet firmly on the rock below her and raises her halberd high. As the first horse passes, Arya leaps from its back and brings _Heartsbane_ crashing down with an ear-splitting ring as it hits the halberd. From the second horse, Jaquen H'Ghar leaps down to face Jon.

"Throw down your arms now and Jon will live," Arya glares, her eyes a frightening blue.

"And what of me?" Daenerys asks.

"You know you can't walk away from this."

'I know. And neither can you." She spins the halberd and the blunt end strikes Arya's head. The girl spirals away and swings her sword. Daenerys dodges. _It's like a dance_, she notes, following each step and countering it with her own. But one misstep and Arya lands a glancing blow on her arm. She jumps back to recover, swiping at her foe's feet. Arya nimbly skips over the low swing and attacks again. _A dance with all our futures at stake_.

Beside them, Jaquen presses Jon furiously, sword on sword. Jon has never fought a man like this before, but he presses forward with every ounce of strength. _For Daenerys. For freedom. For justice._ Jaquen's hand slips into his robe and draws a dagger to stab. It slides across Jon's armor and Jon brings his elbow down on the assassin's face, knocking him back. He presses the advantage, swinging a wide arc with _Longclaw_. Jaquen turns and then he sees them. A dozen outriders that followed him from the temple. Three arrows hit him at once. He drops the sword and dives a final time at Jon with a new dagger. _Longclaw_ cleaves off the attacking arm before Jon spins back around to deal the final fatal blow.

Arya does not even see Jaquen fall. She pivots to keep Daenerys between her and the outriders, swinging sword on halberd, a spinning cycle of steel. Sparks fly from one blade, frost forms on the other, neither willing to yield until Daenerys lands a slicing blow on Arya's calf. She drops, and the blunt end of the halberd hits her hard in the face. _Heartsbane_ slides across the steaming stone. Arya looks up to see the points of both Jon and Daenerys' blades in her face.

"Yield," Jon begs her.

"Can't you see what she's doing?" Arya shakes her head. "Do you really think this is the way to save the world, Jon? I've seen worse than you, I know. But fire and blood will only burn and drown us all. This isn't you, I know you."

"You know nothing about me!" Jon shouts, but Daenerys feels her own grip begin to falter, the halberd's point dipping.

"The Lord of Light isn't offering life, Jon. You know that better than most. You felt it. And you met Lord Beric. There's more to life than not dying. You can't just wipe out all the things you fear. That isn't freedom. That's just control."

Daenerys is about to speak, but then Jon sees Arya's hands. "What did you do?" he demands. But he never gets an answer. Eres crashes into view.

"Intruders!" she gasps. Daenerys looks up to see the Myles Manwoody and Sandor Clegane charging, swords drawn, as Sarella shoots arrows into the crowd of outriders. All chaos breaks out. Arya grabs Daenerys' ankle, feeling the freeze through her armor, she kicks the girl away and Arya runs back to her sword to attack again. In the onslaught that follows, Daenerys feels like the world is spinning. The peninsula begins to shake, more and more violently, cracks forming on the surface. Everywhere she turns she sees fire and death. When did her dream become such a nightmare? The outriders fall one by one. And then a scream. Jon's scream.

Everyone stops to see Jon staring in horror at his own sword piercing the stomach of Ser Myles. He lets go of the hilt as the knight stumbles backwards.

"My king…" Myles gasps, falling to the ground.

"Enough!" Daenerys shouts, her voice echoing with all her power, and stabs her halberd deep down into the ground. A deafening explosion of fire and stone shakes the peninsula as half of it gives away and the tumultuous waves break through. "No more!" She commands. The red sky above has darkened with black clouds dancing with lightning. A terrible wind rages down upon them as Lightbringer and Rhaegal drop out of the sky behind her. She turns back and looks to the distance, where Westeros lies. The land and the people she had loved for so long. Who had betrayed her. But she looks back to the faces of Sandor, Sam, Garin and Sarella. They had come back for Jon and Arya. After everything, they were still here.

"This is not how it is supposed to be!" she shouts, willing the Lord of Light itself to hear. "This is not what I came for! This is not how it ends!"

"Your holiness," Eres steps forward. "You swore! This is your destiny."

"No," Daenerys throws the halberd aside as the echoing explosions continue. "My destiny was to bring freedom. To bring peace. And this is not that destiny. I cannot choose the fate of millions. No one can. Not me. Not you. Not the Bloodstone and not R'Hllor."

"But you are Azor Ahai! You are the chosen one of the Lord of Light!"

"I am," Daenerys places her hands on Eres' shoulders lovingly. "I know you believe in me. So believe in this. Tell them to choose. Tell them to build a better world."

"Tell who?" Eres steps back. But she already knows. "There's no way to stop this!"

"There is. You have served me well, Eres. Take my message to my people." She motions to Rhaegal, who takes flight and swoops down, clutching the warrior in its talons and carrying her off into the sky, back into the east. Daenerys turns back to the others as the storm rages harder and the explosions grow louder. Another piece of the bridge sloughs off into the furious sea.

"What are you doing?" Arya asks.

"You said I couldn't walk away from this. And you were right. But the rest of you can."

"I'm not leaving you!" Jon rushes to her side. "Not again!"

"I'm sorry, my love." She accepts his embrace, feeling the warmth of his kiss a final time. "But you cannot follow where I go. Not yet. Live, please. Live for me." She steps away. Arya and Sam hold Jon back as she climbs atop Lightbringer and pulls the dragonbinder horn from its strap. "Good-bye."

With that, the ancient dragon lifts up into the air and is gone. Jon calls out in anguish as she disappears into the storm and drops to his knees. Arya and Sam kneel to embrace him.

"I'm so sorry," Sam gasps through tears. "I'm so sorry."

Another explosion sends more cracks in the stone. One side of the peninsula slumps down only to burst open with an eruption of molten rock.

"We have to go now!" Sandor yells over the wind. The others rise, but Jon remains curled on the ground. Sandor hoists him over his shoulder as another explosion rocks their feet.

"We'll never make it in time!" Garin shouts.

"Yes you will!" Sam insists. "I can hold it together! I know a spell! Go on!" The others turn to flea back towards the ship, but Sarella lingers

"We're not leaving you behind, Tarly!"

"You have to! Please! It's the only way!" He drops to his knees, desperately trying to remember the words and feel the energy beneath him as another crack widens between their feet. And then, a tense stillness calms the rock. "It's working!" he gasps almost happy. When he looks up, Sarella is rubbing her eyes clear on her green sleeve.

"You're making me cry, Tarly," she tries to smile. "I told you never to do that."

"Tell Jon… Tell Jon I tried to make things right. Tell him not to throw his life away. Tell Gilly and Little Sam I love them. And don't let Mallora kill you for me stealing those books."

"I will. You were a good friend, Tarly. And a good wizard."

Sam smiles, then grimaces at the strain. He looks back up a final time, but Sarella is already disappearing over the rocks to safety. He focuses again on the stones and the fire beneath him and closes his eyes. He imagines Gilly and Little Sam and the baby. _What will she name the baby_, he wonders? And the ground holds firm. _Just another second. And another. And another._

High above it all, Daenerys looks down through the storm as she sees the Frosted Fury cutting away over the waves to safety. Lightbringer circles slowly as the wind tears at her face and hair and huge drops of rain begin to fall down. She looks to the Westerosi shore in the distance and sees the eruptions. There's no time left. Clinging tight with one arm, the other raises the horn to her lips. The ancient, somber chord blows out and one by one she sees the dragons fly towards her. In the back of her mind, she hears the Bloodstone screaming, feels its shadowy fingers tearing at her veins and brain.

_You claimed this power!_ It cries. _You cannot throw it away. They must burn if they are to see the light. They will only destroy each other again and again!_

"Perhaps. But their future will be theirs to build. And perhaps… perhaps if I can untie them through this, then it will not be lost. Perhaps this time they will remember."

_No!_ The voices screech. But she closes her eyes and they are gone. Even the storm is silent now. There is only the soft hum of the distant music of her heart, a tune she thought forgotten. The dragons are all with her now. Together, they circle the raging skies for a few sweet, quiet moments longer. Daenerys remembers the freedom that it is to ride. And for the first time, for so long, she knows peace.

_So much ugliness_, she knows, as she looks out at the world beneath her. _But so beautiful all the same_. It is time she chooses the beauty. It is time to end the journey.

She signals Lightbringer into a dive and his mouth opens to unleash flame. The other dragons follow into the plummet as the peninsula below breaks loose in a wild inferno. The beasts form a line of fire straight down from the sky, the furious wind threatening to tear Daenerys free. But she holds tight as the heart of the peninsula rises up to meet her. She closes her eyes and at last lets go. Fire meets fire and the Arm shatters once again as the waters rush up to claim them all and quench the embers at last. She sinks, slowly, slowly, rocks and dragons falling around her as the embrace of the soothing cold washes everything away.

At the bottom of the sea, there is a little red door. She places her hand on the knob and turns.

* * *

_A/N: "The Iron Throne" score from Season 8 plays perfectly starting from the moment Dany says good-bye to Jon. A real mood and a fitting final tribute._


	50. A Dream of Spring

**The Broken Shore**

It is morning in Westeros.

The scene of the battle is still littered with bodies, many scorched, the ground cracked and burned black from fire, freshly hardened magma still steaming where the land meets the sea that had reclaimed the Arm of Dorne once more. For the survivors of the Westerosi army, assembled on the surrounding ridges, a war unlike any a hundred generations had seen is ended. And they know not what to do.

Atop the highest bluff, overlooking the sea, Brienne of Tarth sheaths _Oathkeeper_ at last, wiping sweat and blood from her brow. She has stared out to sea for some time. When she looks back, the surviving commanders of their forces are making their way to her. She looks about for the king or the Hand, but the men are coming to her.

"Lady Tarth, what ought we do?" Edric Dayne asks. Brienne tries to think of an answer as they press nearer. At her side, Tyrion points them to her, the dwarf's tongueless mouth ever silent. She looks back to the young Lord Dayne, his hands still shaking. This is has been his first true battle, she can see. A gull cries overhead and there is silence.

"We go home," she declares.

As the other commanders continue to flock towards Brienne for answers, Tyrion slips away. The Children of the Forest, it seems, have disappeared as quickly as they came, but he sees Rolly Duckfield standing by Grif and Harlan Dondarrion at their seat at the edge of the bluff. He cuts through the crowd to them. The gilded knight sees them coming.

"The king is hurt," Rolly nearly chokes on the words. Tyrion looks down to see the rock beneath them dark and sticky with blood. As he draws nearer, he can see the grievous extent of wounds on both men. The king's helm lies discarded, and he holds his crown in his lap. His flowing silver hair is clotted and stuck to his face by blood. Tyrion looks up at Rolly, imploring him to get help. _Surely there are healers nearby, and the Children cannot have gone far_. But the king sees his intent.

"It's too late for that," Grif sighs, offering a resigned smile. "Leave us this moment." Reluctantly, Rolly steps back, but Grif motions for Tyrion to lean in and hands him the crown, whispering something in his ear. "Do you understand?" he asks. Tyrion nods solemnly, looking at the treasure in his hands, and backs away, leaving the king and his Hand alone. A peaceful ocean breeze rolls over the bluff as the sky clears.

"I'm sorry," Harlan sighs. He breathes out, heavily and shakily, and slumps against Grif, head resting on the king's shoulder. "I wish I could have served you better."

"You served me well, Lord Harlan. You served the realm well." Grif assures him. "Look at the sun. We've won." When no answer comes, he sees Harlan's eyes have closed. Looking back out to the sea, he feels his pulse slowing and lets the sun warm his skin and the wind tug at his matted hair. His arm goes limp. "Look at the sun…"

* * *

**Storm's End**

_Euron is dead_. Yara still isn't sure she believes it, prodding his body again with her toe. She looks across to the others. Meera Reed kneels by her father's body, while Bran sits by Theon where he fell, Ghost's nose resting on the slain man's chest.

"We can help you take your brother to the sea," Bran looks up at her. "What is dead may never die." But Yara shakes her head.

"Take him back to Winterfell, if you would bless him so. That was his true home."

"It will be done," Bran sadly hands her Theon's wolfhelm.

"And what of Euron?" Obara asks, looking down at the dead pirate.

"Burn the body and leave the ashes to the dirt," Yara spits. "He is not worthy of the sea. Let him see what peace his god of flame will give him."

Yara leaves to see to the other survivors while Obara drags Euron's body away, leaving Meera alone with Bran. She moves to his side.

"Something's wrong," she knows.

"Theon… And your father. I'm sorry about your father."

"He lived for the old gods and he died for the old gods. He would not have fallen any other way. There's something else. What is it?"

"He's gone," Bran takes her hand, shaking. "The king is gone."

* * *

**The Disputed Lands**

On the edge of the Narrow Sea, the great Red Temple has half collapsed into the sea. The massive crowd of freedmen, priests and warriors that had come to worship R'Hllor still wait, staring at the blank space where their savior had stood and vowed to lead them to conquest. Looking up to the sky, murmurs grow to shouts as a circling green dragon drops down out of the sky onto the steps of the ruined temple. Out from under its talons, Eres crawls back to her feet and haltingly descends the steps as the crowd rushes towards her.

"My lady! A ragged priestess calls out, dropping to her knees on the steps below Eres. She can see the marks on the woman's neck where only so recently a slave's collar had choked. "What has happened? Where is the Lord's chosen?"

The question is taken up my more voices, more desperate faces, all pleading with their eyes for an answer. Eres looks up to the clear sky and tries to remember Daenerys' voice, the words she had left her with.

"I have a message!" she declares and a hush falls. "A message from Azor Ahai!"

* * *

**The Frosted Fury**

On the far edge of the camp, the Manderly vessel is moored at the shore, the surviving members of its crew picking their way through the outskirts until they come to what they are looking for, a pile of corpses, including the red priest, Moqorro. Leading the way, Arya walks slowly to a collapsed tent. Tugging aside the rolled fabric, she reveals the body of Gendry Baratheon, his singed face peaceful, his warhammer resting on his chest.

Behind her, Sandor silently places a huge hand on her shoulder. Arya runs her own cold, hardened hand over his face, but if any warmth remained, she cannot feel it. A single tear freezes on her cheek.

"He will be buried with his ancestor's at Storm's End," she solemnly grabs at his boots. "He was a true lord." Without a word, Sandor helps her lift the body into the air and together they begin the slow procession back to their vessel.

* * *

**King's Landing**

Sansa watches from the walls as the returning army, banners blowing in the wind, appears in the distance. When the red scar had left the sky, it had opened up with rain for days. But now the sky has cleared, letting sun down to illuminate the returning victors. Horns begin to sound and bells ring from within the broken city barricades. She watches the other nobles who had not gone south to fight – Allyria Dayne, Gilly, Rhonda Hightower, Missandei – their eyes full of relief and hope. But her own mind was darker. The few ravens they had received spoke with ominous vagary of the battle. They had been victorious, the red god's army routed and the Arm of Dorne reclaimed by the sea. But they had suffered 'great losses'. No more detail than that.

As the individual riders and banners at the head of the long line come into view, it is clear this is no celebratory parade. Sansa immediately sees what is wrong. At their head ride Lord Selwyn Tarth and Brienne, Art Hightower, Lord Andar Royce, Edric Dayne, Lord Titus Peake and Mya Baratheon. From Storm's End, Yara Greyjoy has joined them, and Bran atop Ghost. But there is no sign of King Griffin, nor his royal banner.

Abandoning her royal courtesies, Sansa turns from the wall and runs down the stairs, Mycah and her towering Skagosi guardians quickly chasing after her. Her feet sink deep into the mud as she makes her way down towards the first riders passing beneath the gates. Bran seems to see her even before she comes into view, the great white direwolf stopping, and all the riders halting with it. His face is pale and grieving. But it is Brienne who speaks first.

"The king is dead, your grace."

* * *

**The Frosted Fury**

The white plastered hull and teal sail of the small boat bob up and down across the Narrow Sea. The distant blur of Westeros can be seen on the horizon now. Below deck, the surviving crew has talked little since their departure, a long, silent, uncomfortable journey for all. But while Sandor and Sarella and the rest have spoken from time to time, Arya has barely said a word. Nor has Jon, whom she silently slinks onto deck to see as the sun sets in the West once again. The man who was once her brother, once her king and once her foe sits alone at the bow, the salty wind blowing his dark hair. She treads quietly on the boards until she can take a seat at his side.

"They made you into one of them," he says, without looking at her.

"I think so, yes," she remembers the cold, heartless eyes of the Night King. "I want to see Sansa and Bran again. But then… I want it to be you."

"That's not the only way," Jon shakes his head. "Maybe you won't be like the White Walkers. Maybe you'll be like Benjen."

"Uncle Benjen's dead."

"No, he's…" Jon realizes there is so much that he hasn't told her. And so much that she hasn't told him. "He's alive. Or he was when we parted. Beyond the wall. The Children made him into something else. Like the Walkers, but still… part human, somehow. Maybe you'll be like him. Maybe you could find him."

"Maybe," Arya sighs. "But we can't know."

"I'm willing to risk it," Jon finally turns to her. "You're my sister."

They rest in that moment, before Arya asks. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I can't go back. I abdicated my claim, but the king will never be assured in his position if they know I'm alive. And I don't want to be used again," he looks at the scar on his hand. "The throne cut me. I was not meant for it."

"Then what are you meant for?"

"I don't know. I need to go somewhere to find out. Somewhere where no one knows my name, where I can claim my own path. I'm tired of other people trying to write my story."

Arya squints into the setting sun. "There's a boy below deck who may have an idea for you." Jon nods, half-interested. "But what you said about Uncle Benjen. When did you meet him? I want to know what happened. From the beginning."

"Only if you tell me what happened to you," Jon grips her cold, frost-blackened hand. She nods, and as the ship rolls on into the West, piece by piece they weave their tales, of love and loss, triumph and fear, and, finally, the faintest glimmer of hope.

* * *

**Baelor's Room**

"He seemed a good king…" Baelor Hightower murmurs through shallow breath. The maesters and healers have toiled day and night on his wounds. But when he summoned his family and bannermen to crowd at his bedside, Missandei knew it was all for naught. "It is a shame. What could have been…"

"There will be a Great Council, father," Art kneels, holding the lord's pale hand, Lady Rhonda holding the other. "All the lords will look to you to say who should lead."

"No, I…" Baelor coughs violently. "I don't think I shall go. But you, Arthur. Perhaps I should tell them that you should be king."

"I have so much work to be done in the Reach, father," Art protests. "And in Oldtown."

"I suppose you are right. Then I say that it is up to you. You will be lord by the time this council dawns. You will be the Beacon of the South and the Voice of Oldtown. Judge wisely, and look around. This room is full of good counsel."

"You'll live, father!" Art insists.

"No," Baelor smiles gently, hands shaking. "I raised you to be wiser than that." He looks down at his children, quiet Hela kneeling beside Art, then to his last surviving siblings: Gunthor, Humfrey and Mallora, blinded in the battle, who Missandei has led here to her brother's side. "Gunthor, do not even ask. You are no king." The knight's face flushes red. "You have brought great dishonor on our name. But I still believe you may one day prove worthy. Close the book on the past. Let today be a new beginning."

"Now," he turns to Missandei, waiting anxiously by the maesters with quill and ink. "Listen carefully to my words." He pulls, crumpled from beneath the covers, a parchment, scrawled with another clumsily drawn plan for a new Hightower.

"Oh, Baelor," Rhonda rests a calming hand on his shoulder as he tries to rise, but he persists. Turning the paper around, he shows it is scrawled with his own writing.

"You were right, dear. It is not in my hands to build a new tower. But I wish to build something else." Coughing again, he jabs a finger at the maesters, ensuring their transcription begins. "Hear my words. I command you to ensure the Court of Highgarden's promise is fulfilled. Put an end to the squabbling, and let the voices of the people be heard. Regarding the Citadel, inform them that I wish to see them admit girls to study. Their minds are no less bright, isn't that right, Hela?" The girl smiles, nodding enthusiastically. "And I want to see schools in the countryside, not just in our city. If the smallfolk are to learn to govern, the floodgates of knowledge must be unlocked."

Missandei watches the maester as he writes that down, looking for a sign of offense. But if he takes any, it is not shown.

"This is my final will to you, my son," Baelor lies back down as Art stands. "And to all of you. It is a new dawn in Westeros. Rise to it. Rise…"

As he rests, slowly the lords and healers and family file out, until only Rhonda remains at her husband's side. Missandei turns to leave as well, but hears her voice as Baelor breathes it out, unmoving, faint as a whisper. She turns back.

"Missandei of Naath. Thank you. I go to my father, now. You have planted a garden I will not see grow. But I have faith you will see it bloom."

"Thank you, my lord," she bows, the tears she had fought back for days slowly coming.

"Baelor, please. Call me Baelor."

"Thank you, Baelor." And with that, Missandei is gone. The lord's eyes close and his wife brushes his tangled brown hair away from his face to plant a gentle kiss. Baelor's pet lizard scurries down her arm and onto its master's chest.

"They need you now." He finds the strength to wrap his fingers in hers one last time. "They'll all need you."

"We were to grow old together, my shining light," she whispers.

"We have my love," his voice drifts off and though his eyes are closed, she knows he sees her. "We will... together…"

And so passes Lord Baelor Hightower.

* * *

**Stark Quarters**

Sansa looks around the table at her companions, the free rulers of Westeros: Queen Yara Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, Queen Arianne Martell of Dorne, King Robin Arryn of Mounatin and Vale and herself, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North. They have left even their closest advisors aside for this meeting, though Sansa wishes, for Robin's sake, Lord Royce were still by his side.

"I say we let what kingdoms still bow to the Iron Throne sort out amongst themselves who should sit it," Yara bluntly declares. "What should it matter to us?"

"Yes!" Robin nods vigorously, his over-sized crown dipping down on his forehead. "I want to go home! I'm done fighting their wars. I want to get married!"

"And how many wars have you fought, again, King Robin?" Arianne smirks.

The boy king opens his mouth to protest, but stumbles over finding a worthy retort, and Sansa speaks first. "None of our kingdoms will prosper if the realm is in chaos."

"Don't be so certain," Yara chuckles. "I rule my own islands."

"And Dorne governed itself long after the Conquest," Arianne adds.

"Would you have been able to fight off Euron on your own?" Sansa glares at them. "Or defend against the Fiery Hand? We live and die alongside our neighbors."

"Why, dear Sansa," Arianne looks suspiciously at her. "Are you starting to have second thoughts about ruling the North all by yourself? Looking to become the Queen Who Knelt?"

_Is that really what I want?_ Sansa asks herself. But she says out loud "I only think we should attend the Great Council. The decision will affect us all, free or not." In the end, not even Robin can protest that, and the rulers go their separate ways. Sansa watches them each leave, the sun through the window glittering on their crowns. She pours herself some wine and grabs a pastry or two, at last alone with her thoughts.

_We sacrificed so much to be free. But what did that earn us? We would have still been ruled by Ramsey without the Knights of the Vale. And without Daenerys' army, the Night King would have cut us all down…_

The door swings open, startling her mid-thought. Brushing crumbs from her bosom, she rises, expecting Mycah. But instead Tyrion is standing there, holding his slate, scratched neatly with chalk: _We need to speak about the king._

* * *

**The Dragonpit**

Tents of every color and pattern are assembled to shelter the lords and ladies of Westeros from the wind and winter sun. It is warm, the first warm day in some time. Bran sits in his chair in the grey Stark pavilion with Sansa and Mycah. Lord Glover, Sigorn, Lady Stane and the mountain lords wait behind them. Presiding over the council, Lord Fowler, Lord Tarth and a maester Bran does not know are discussing the protocols of proper order. But it is clear the crowd is impatient to begin. Fowler yells something to try and quiet the crowd and the High Septon offers up a prayer to the Seven to grant wisdom. Bran says a silent prayer to the old gods, and any others who may listen. When his ears re-open, Lord Tarth is elaborating on the history and etiquette of the process.

"Enough talking, let's get on with it!" Someone shouts.

"Of course, of course," Fowler reclaims order at last. "We will hear from each in turn. But first, I have been informed that Lord Tyrion Lannister has an important message."

"What can a mute possibly have to say?" Lord Peake bellows from the tent of the Marcher Lords. "Why should we listen to the imp? A kinslayer and a kingslayer?"

"He doesn't even have a tongue…" Edmure Tully looks over quizzically from his tent. "What's he going on about?" Sansa hushes her uncle, but the other lords will not be so easily silenced. Tyrion backs away as the arguing grows and suddenly Bran finds himself wheeling out before them all.

"Will nothing put an end to your bickering?" he shouts. "After everything we have survived? We have fought and won against the god of ice and death and the god of fire and life! We have survived because we united around what we share. Around the things that make us human! Love and memory and harmony and all those splendid little things that give us our strength to carry on but are so easily thrown away the moment we think we might be able to get a little more powerful than our neighbor."

"We are only able to sit here today and yell and curse about who killed who and who deserves what because thousands of noble men and woman, from the lowest, bravest masons and whores who took up arms to defend their homes to the king himself, came together and forgot who they were supposed to be, because for a few brief moments they all saw the things that were bigger than them! If they could see us now, they would be ashamed. Because what good is surviving if we never learn?"

"So go on, go your separate ways, break apart again, look after your families and your own kingdoms first. Go back to normal, and the same blood will be spilled again. I thought we were building something better. Griffin Blackfyre did too, and so did Aemon and Daenerys Targaryen. I guess you've proved us all wrong. So don't come asking me for advice. I'm going home."

As he wheels away, a silence falls. Tyrion has watched him closely through the speech, and now shuffles near to Lord Fowler, scrawling out a message on his slate. Fowler reads it, takes a deep breath and stands.

"Lord Tyrion was with King Griffin when he passed. The king entrusted his final will to him." Fowler declares. Rolly Duckfield nods to affirm. "In his final moments, King Griffin Blackfyre, First of His Name, expressed a wish to name his chosen successor. The council will still pass judgement on this decision. But the name given by the king was Brandon Stark."

Bran freezes as the tents erupt in shouting behind him. Art Hightower immediately voices approval while Lord Peake howls in protest. But he wheels on until he is safely out of sight and the presiding lords call for a recess to discuss the developments. As the nobles disperse, clustered tightly in small groups, whispering urgently to themselves, Bran attempts to leave discreetly, Obara and Meera clustered close by. But he finds his path blocked by Arianne, Yara, Edmure and Sansa.

"You speak well, prince," Yara eyes him up and down. "I fought hard to free the Islands, but you may be right in the end." Bran can see in his sister's eyes that this change of heart is her work, not his. He wonders what she's offered the sea queen.

"We will endorse your claim to the throne and pledge fealty," Arianne vows.

"And Robin, too, most like," Sansa adds. "He'll do as I advise. But if our kingdoms are to be united once more, there must be changes."

"We will not return to how things once were," Arianne insists. "We wish for an assurance that the inheritance of lands and titles be passed to the first-born, rather man or woman, as has always been our custom in Dorne."

"And there will be new rights for the smallfolk," Edmure insists. "I saw firsthand the horrors of these past wars, the way the weakest were crushed. We say no more."

"The fifth Aegon wished to see such reforms," Bran recalls. "It nearly started a rebellion."

"We have already had our fill of rebellion. And Aegon did not have your powers, nor the support of the most powerful lords," Sansa eyes him fiercely. "What do you say?"

"I haven't even said if I want to be king."

"I know you Bran," Sansa leans close. "You're my brother. If you can see another way, tell me. But if not… Father raised us all to do our duty."

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

"It should be him," Bran stares at the empty throne, Meera by his side. They await the verdict of the Great Council, arguing into the night. "Griffin was meant to be king, not me. I shouldn't have let him go to the frontlines. I should have tried harder to protect him. I should have found a better strategy for defense. If he had done the sacrifice, he would still be here."

"And it would have haunted you both for the rest of your lives. You wouldn't be the same," Meera places her hands on his shoulders. "But he did make a sacrifice, Bran. He sacrificed himself. And he wanted you to be king."

"But why? He trusted me, I know, but I never would have thought…"

"There is a way to know for sure," Meera answers, pointing to his forehead, as if to pry at the hidden third eye. "And that is why you will be a good king. You've been given a great gift Bran, to know the truth of this world."

"Powers are not enough," Bran protests. "Though I see now what they truly are. Euron thought the gift was a weapon, to strike down his foes. Bloodraven used it as a chain, to bind and control the people. The Children used it as a shield to hide behind. But they were all wrong. It's water. Water to grow, to give new life to the world. But water can kill, too. Sometimes, I feel like I'm drowning. And then I worry Bloodraven was right. That I can never be truly human again. That in the end I'll end up just like him."

"He's not right, Bran," Meera kneels before his wheelchair, looking up with her deep green eyes. "I know your heart. And I too know water."

"I can't do this without you."

"I know," she takes his hand. "That's why I'm not going anywhere."

Though they've heard no doors open, their tender moment is disturbed by the sound of soft yet clumsy footsteps echoing on the cold floor towards them. They turn to see a pale grey specter of a woman, hobbling towards them, guided by a cane.

"Lady Mallora," Meera rises to steady the blind witch's walk. "You shouldn't go out by yourself. You'll be hurt!"

"Hurt?" Mallora laughs, dry and raspy. "Why can't I walk about with no eyes when your prince roams the halls with no legs? Or should I say," her head turns as if she knows exactly where Bran sits, "your king."

"So it is done," Bran tries not to show a reaction on his face, even before Mallora, through his mind and heart are racing and she is more likely to sense that.

"It is done," she nods. "You have some choices to make, your grace. Choose wisely. For tomorrow you will be sitting up there." A single bony finger extends, pointing up at the Iron Throne – cold, dark and empty. But only empty for one more night.

* * *

**Chataya's Brothel**

Missandei stands before Malaqo, Grim Tongue and an assortment of leaders from the Dothraki and Unsullied that she does not know. Ser Argilac, Humfrey Hightower and Lord Arstan Selmy have accompanied her. She watches the reactions of the Eastern generals, sees their relief at finally meeting with a familiar face. But she can only wish Grey Worm were among them.

"Is it true?" Malaqo asks, the bells in the old Dothraki's white braid ring softly as he tips his head forward. "Is our khaleesi truly dead?"

"We believe that to be so," Missandei tells them, as much as she must tell herself. No one knows for sure, not yet, but she knows that the battle would not have ended while Daenerys lived. She only prays that she found peace in the end.

"And what have you come to do with us?" Grim Tongue eyes her suspiciously.

"I've come to keep her promises. There are empty keeps and unclaimed lands in the Marches, the mountains and the North. They will be given over to whatever of you members wish to stay here in Westeros."

Malaqo nods approvingly. "Your Marches remind me of the Great Grass Sea. Give us a place to ride free and know peace, and the promise will be fulfilled."

"What of those who do not wish to stay?" Grim Tongue is still not satisfied. "Grey Worm had a dream, too. A dream to defend your people."

"And my love's dream will be fulfilled," Missandei assures him. "You cannot live on Naath, for the butterfly fever curses friend and foe alike. But we have boats," she points to Humfrey. "The Hightower fleet will carry you there, and you may come to build stands in the shallow bays. Before the slavers came, Naath traded its silks and wine around the world. Under your protection and with our ships, my people may share their gifts with the world, you may fund your defense, and all will prosper."

That seems to satisfy even the brooding Unsullied general, and Missandei leaves them, pleased. But as she steps outside, she finds Obara Sand leading a procession of mounted guards, waiting for her.

"Lady Missandei of Naath," Obara calls down from atop her horse. "His grace Brandon Stark has need of you."

* * *

**The Iron Throne**

Missandei bends down to let young Alys help fasten the gilded Hand's pin to her chest. She remembers the pin that Aemon had given her. And Daenerys' pin that she had carried for so long. As she straightens back up, smoothing the front of her slim orange gown, she thinks of all she has loved and served – Aemon, Baelor, Grey Worm and above all Daenerys. They are gone, but all are with her now as she steps out into the Great Hall as the crowd awaits amongst the sound of harps and flutes and drums.

At the head of them all, Ser Argilac and Obara stand in new, gleaming white scale and cloaks, hoisting Bran up and lifting him onto the throne. He wears a plain grey doublet and trousers, embroidered with black dire-wolves. He looks cleaner and older than she has ever seen him, Missandei thinks as she takes her place beside Meera at the right-hand of the throne. The new High Septon comes then, with Griffin's iron crown in hand, to place upon Bran's brow.

Obara pounds her spear on the floor to silence the crowd. "All hail King Brandon Stark, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm!" And as the new king's name echoes off the walls, Missandei can feel that a new day truly has begun in Westeros.

* * *

**King's Landing Docks**

The Frosted Fury is moored as its crew returns at last to Westerosi soil. Home. Sarella, Sandor and Garin make their way off, pausing where Mycah, Obara and Meera wait.

"What of Lord Tarly and Ser Myles?" Obara asks.

"They didn't make it," Sarella answers, somberly. "I need to see his wife. I want to be the one to tell her. She'll need to be looked after now." But no one moves, not yet, for they turn from a distance to watch the reunion on the docks below as Arya and Jon climb up, the last to leave the boat, finding Sansa waiting for them by Bran in his chair, Ghost looming behind them.

At first sight of Jon, the direwolf pounces forward, for a moment seeming about to break the whole dock below its shifting weight. But it is upon Jon, its thick tongue dancing out to his face as he drops to his knees and buries his face in the white fur. At his side, Arya is wearing thick black gloves, a dark hood pulled low over her face. She does not move to greet the others.

"You can take the hood off, Arya," Bran tells her. "We're family."

Slowly, she reveals her face, and with it the dark, dead, frosted flesh around her eyes and mouth, spreading more every day. Sansa tries not to gasp, but her shock is evident. Arya doesn't seem to mind, however, and steps past Ghost towards her siblings. Jon rises to follow. And then they see the crown on Bran's head.

"You've done well," is all Jon says.

"If you want it…" Bran is quick to respond, but Jon cuts him off.

"I don't."

"You are both welcome at Winterfell," Sansa offers. "It's time for us to go home."

"Home," Jon sighs, looking at Arya, then Bran and Sansa in turn. "I think that means something different to each of us now."

Sansa stumbles at that. "The lone wolf dies but the pack survives."

"I know," Arya nods. "But we have our own packs now." She looks to the shore where their companions wait. "And we will always be one. When we were apart before, and now again. Father and mother and Robb and Rickon and all of us. We made it together."

"So I this is farewell?" Sansa asks. Arya says nothing. She only leans in, Jon following as the last of the Starks share a final embrace above the calm waves of Blackwater Bay, the sun creeping from behind the clouds. The day is warm.

* * *

**White Sword Tower**

The great book of the Kingsguard lies open on a table in the chambers of the Lord Commander. Brienne, dressed finely in her armor adorned with the colors of Tarth, flips through the pages. There are short entries for the brave knights that guarded King Aemon, even a brief tribute to those who served Daenerys. She smiles sadly at Ser Balon Swann's pages. But when she comes to the entry she seeks, she finds it incomplete.

Brienne looks up as the door opens. Obara Sand steps in, her freshly made white armor pure and bright, white cloak flowing gracefully behind her.

"Lord Commander," Brienne nods respectfully. "The first woman in the Kingsguard."

"Ser Brienne," Obara bows stiffly, the stern Dornishwoman stepping forward hesitantly. "I fear I sometimes think this cloak ought to belong to you."

"I dreamed of it once. But I have found new duties, new challenges. My Lady Stark was right. I am done serving." _And done trying to prove myself,_ she thinks. Turning the book towards Obara, she points to the page she had sought. _Ser Jaime Lannister_. "You did not finish his entry."

"I did not know the man. But you did," Obara spins the book back around on the table and hands Brienne the quill and ink.

"What do you want me to write?" she asks.

"The truth."

* * *

**Small Council Chamber**

White cloaks flowing behind them, Ser Obara and Ser Argilac march beside Bran as he wheels his way down the hall towards the Small Council chamber. Two more of his sworn guard, Black Balaq of the Golden Company and Ser Gavin Locke of White Harbor wait by the door. They swing the doors open, and he finds a crowd of nobles standing, awaiting their king's arrival. Along the wall are lined his freshly chosen Wardens, including the new Captain-General of the Golden Company, to whom he had honored their claim to Dragonstone.

He passes them one by one, granting his blessing. "Lady Brienne of Tarth, Warden of the East. Lord Tyrion Lannister, Warden of the West. Lord Bronn Blackwater, Warden of the South and Steward of the Highgarden Court. Lord Rolland Duckfield, Lord of Dragonstone and Warden of the Narrow Sea. Lady Sansa Stark, Warden of the North." Each bow in turn, and Bran feels a particular sense of pride in Sansa's eyes as she greets him last.

They leave in turn as his chair wheels into place at the head of the council table. Obara takes her seat to his left and Missandei to the right, the other council members sitting in turn: Lord Franklyn Fowler, Master of Law. Mallora Hightower, Mistress of Whisperers. Hotho Harlaw, Master of Ships. And Lord Wylis Manderly, Master of Coin.

"Your grace," Wylis raises his fat hand. "I see no place for the Master of War."

"Indeed not, Lord Manderly," Bran nods. "We have at last rid our land of war. My wardens will keep the peace. And we will pray that chair not need returned to the table in our lifetime. Now," the young king places both hands on the table and breathes deeply before opening his eyes once more. "Let us begin."

* * *

**Davos' Keep**

At the gates of a small stone holdfast on Shipbreaker Bay, two small boys run out from the gate, a kindly old woman following behind them. There is no fanfare as a lone, beat-down horse traipses slowly down the rocky path, its rider in a rain-soaked dark cloak and floppy hat. The children, faster than the lazy horse, soon reach the rider. Davos Seaworth tears off the hat to reveal a huge smile on his weathered face. The old smuggler drops down from his horse to embrace his surviving sons, Stannis and Steffon, laughing as they jump up to embrace him, shouting with joy.

"Are you back for good, this time?" He looks up to see his wife, Marya looking down at them, a mix of hope and restraint in her wrinkled eyes. Davos rises, tussling their son's hair. He pulls Marya close and kisses her for the first time in years.

"I promise you, I never want to leave again."

* * *

**Castlery Rock**

Trumpets sound from the top of Castlery Rock as the party of Tyrion Lannister appears. His wheelhouse stops atop a hill a league away, with the legendary Lannister fortress looming high up in the sky. The door opens and his stubby legs swing down. _It is warm today, for winter_, he thinks and thanks the bright sun and clear sky above. Lady Allyria Dayne, in a flowing purple dress, steps out behind him, holding little Tysha in her arms. Allyria's violet eyes widen at the first sight of The Rock, and she hands the babe to its uncle.

_This is yours, little one_, Tyrion thinks, holding Tysha up high to see her family's inheritance. He has never been one to fancy the thought of an afterlife. But he hopes that Jaime can see his child now. And that their own father could see what had come of his hateful legacy. _One day you will rule it all. And what a world we will build for you._

* * *

**Pyke**

Yara finds Rodrik Harlaw waiting for her with an assembly of lords as she returns, cheering her on as she mounts the Seastone Chair. She eases into it, feeling the slick stone natural beneath her back and surveying her subjects, confident at last that none remain who will dare to challenge her. She has paid the iron price, and the islands at last are hers. She closes her eyes and lets their pledges of fealty turn to music in her ears.

* * *

**Summerhall**

Once again, the ruins of the ancient hall are alive with workers, raising back up the walls. Amidst the work, Alysenth, Elenei and Barristan Dondarrion watch as their father's legacy comes to life around them. Ever-somber Alysenth turns back to face their companions – Mya Baratheon, Lord Selwyn and Brienne of Tarth, Gilly Tarly and a crowd of Horpe knights. Little Sam Flowers huddles behind the drapes of his mother's wool dress.

"I want father to be buried here," Alysenth declares. "This was his dream."

"Will you be living here once it is complete?" Lord Selwyn asks, the Evenstar, now Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, chosen by the king to end the Baratheon/Dondarrion feud.

"I will give it to Barristan when it is complete. But Blackhaven is my home," Alysenth decides, and attention turns to Gilly. Brienne steps forward.

"Lady Tarly. Know that we all grieve with you. I only knew your husband briefly, but he was a brave man. Trust that we will ensure no harm befalls you and your child grows to his place as Lord of Horn Hill. I will escort you home personally, and remand Ser Steffon Horpe to your service as a defender."

The shrouded white knight helps Gilly, clumsy in her pregnancy, atop her horse and she rides off into the mist, Steffon and Brienne at each side. As the others fade away, Alysenth kneels down with her siblings, removing a weirwood pod from the depths of her purple-slashed black robe. Together, they dig a trench in the earth and plant the seed, leaving it to grow along with the reborn castle around it.

* * *

**The Marches**

The prairie seems to stretch on for an eternity here as a ramshackle band of Dothraki stop before a half collapsed stone keep. The disrepair of the walls nor the misting rain does not faze Malaqo as he leaves his horse to walk slowly into their new home, stopping before a thin, warped old wierwood tree. He turns back to the people who have followed him here, already pitching their tents. But he climbs the keeps crumbling tower until he can climb no more to see all he can of their new home. He will call this keep 'Daenerys' Gift'. And he will ride free forever.

* * *

**Highgarden**

The round Great Hall is overflowing with the newly inducted members of the new court – nobles and common folk alike. Each kneels in turn to pledge fealty and sign their name before a row of maesters and Bronn, his wife, the gardner's daughter, at his side with their newborn child. Missandei watches approvingly from her seat between Lord Hobber and Talla Redwyne, Lord Art and Desmera Hightower and his lady mother Rhonda. A smile crosses her face as even Ser Gunthor and Lord Peake dejectedly kneel before them to take their place in the new order. Warm light shines through the roseglass window, the same light that shines down upon the weirwood sprig freshly planted in the castle's godswood.

* * *

**Sunspear**

Princess Arianne Martell strides out into the grand chamber of the Tower of the Sun, holding the twin seats of the Dornish rulers – the Martell spear and the Rhoynish sun. Behind her, Edric Dayne's eyes widen as he takes in the great ornate dome for the first time. Elia Martell grabs his hand, and pulls her betrothed off to showcase her favorite parts of the castle.

Hearing their youthful feet echo off down the hall, Arianne crosses the floor through the dancing beams of light from the ornate windows above. Straightening the vulture mask on her face, she seats in the spear-seat and looks to the empty chair beside her. Young Corlys Tarth would come to visit soon enough. Perhaps he would stay. Lord Selwyn's nephew would be a good match. Or perhaps not. As she leans back in the seat, Arianne knows she at last has time of her own.

* * *

**The Citadel**

Missandei watches approvingly as novices toil at transcribing copies of a new tome. She pauses at one nervous young lad as he paints a cover for the text: _On the Future of Healing in the Unreachable Illnesses by Maester Qyburn._

Content with the work, she walks out from the shop and makes her way to the island on the Honeywine where the ravenry sits behind the great old weirwood tree. She finds Garin there with Sarella, now wearing her maester's chain. With them, little Alys stands in the beige robes of a novice, the first girl to be admitted to the Citadel, with many more on their way, Sarella assures her. Missandei smiles to think how happy that sight would have made Daenerys.

Sarella looks fondly to a discarded archery target at the root of the great tree. "I want to raise a statue to Sam here. This was his favorite place."

"I was sorry to hear of his passing. He seemed like a good man."

"He was. He never stopped believing in what this place was supposed to be. Now it's up to us to make it something better. Isn't that right, Alys?"

"The old grey sheep are gone," the former 'little bird' declares proudly. "I want to see Master Qyburn's book."

"Ser Garin will show you," Sarella answers, and the fierce girl runs off, Garin struggling to keep up. Sarella turns back to Missandei, looking at the pin on her chest. "I suppose you'll have to be running off to the capital now?"

"I'm afraid so. But I will be back soon. King Brandon believes in Oldtown. Anything you need, let us know. We're in this together."

"I have to wonder, my lady," Sarella adds as they turn to leave. "How long will you stay? With the trade to Naath restored, will you be returning home?"

Missandei pauses for a moment, looking down the river towards the great city beyond and breathing the air of the strange new land her queen had brought her to so long ago now. From the depths of her orange robes, she pulls the slave collar she had carried with her ever since the day Daenerys freed her. That day she had traded her chains for a dream. That dream is alive here now, she can feel it. With a small splash, the collar drops into the serene waters of the Honeywine and disappears. She looks back at Sarella.

"This is my home."

* * *

**Naath**

The beautiful island rests serenely on crystal blue waters as the Hightower fleet approaches, their orange sails catching a swift western wind. Ser Humfrey stands at the helm with his young Tyrell wife, Lord Costayne and Grim Tongue. The Unsullied commander's mouth cannot help but drop at the beauty of the land before them. He has renamed the commanding vessel _Grey Worm_, and it pains him that his beloved commander is not here to see this same view. But he vows that the dream of peace for Naath will live on.

In a smaller, yet no less sturdy boat nearby, Wynafryd Manderly takes in the same view, her sail bearing her own new sigil – a purple mermaid clutching lightning. Below deck awaits new items to trade with the locals, along with a gift – a weirwood pod, the birth of her new merchant enterprise. For now, there is only one boat, but tomorrow there may be two, and then more. Tugging at the teal ribbon in her braid, her long blonde hair tumbles loose to blow freely in the salty wind. _This is what freedom smells like._

* * *

**Winterfell**

A soft sun filters down through the branches of the weirwood as soft green grass begins to grow from the ground once again. The rays light the faces of Sansa Stark and Mycah Manderly as their lives are joined as one. Their friends and family gather round – Edmure Tully, Sigorn and Alys Karstark, Munda Giantsbane, Lady Stane, Ser Marlon Manderly and so many more - pressed tightly together in the cold.

But Sansa only feels warm in Mycah's embrace, the ghosts of her first wedding beneath this tree evaporated away. She almost swears she sees the ancient carved face smile. She smiles back and smiles on through the feast, as the people, her people, come one by one to pay their respects. She is happy at last as they carry her away to bed and Mycah gently removes her gown, kissing her lips and her chest and her soft belly. She holds tight to him, letting him wash over her. Tomorrow her rule begins. But tonight she lets a new truth of feeling envelop her at last, and drowns in a sea of love.

* * *

**The Far North**

The ruins of the Wall lie like a great blue scar across the white expanse of snow and ice. Through them pass a ragtag band of horses – some Wildings, some Dothraki, some straggling survivors of the Night's Watch and smallfolk only looking for a new home. At their head, Tywin Dondarrion and Sandor Clegane, each draped in heavy black cloaks, ride beside Arya Stark. She peers out to the horizon, the sun glaring blindingly back up at her from the white ground ahead. For a moment, on the ridge ahead where the red leaves of a weirwood stand out against the sky, she thinks she sees a huddled crowd of stunted creatures. And standing tall among them, a dark figure, black hair waving in the wind, somehow strangely familiar. And then they are gone and she flicks the reigns on her horse, stomping forward into the unknown, leaving only a trail of tracks in the snow.

* * *

**The Lonely Light**

Young Gyles Farwynd runs across the deck of a great voyaging ship, checking with each member of the crew and ensuring every line is properly fastened. Behind him, Jon steps on board as the mooring ropes come loose and the sails rise. His hair has been cut short to his scalp, his plain clothes bear no markings of nobility or family line, he had even sent _Longclaw_ back to Winterfell with Sansa. He is a new man, born today, with a lightness in his step as the vessel cuts through smooth water. In the clouds above, he thinks perhaps he sees the silhouette of a dragon. But for now, his eyes are on the western horizon, as the strong wind at his back carries him far and far again towards a new world.

* * *

**The Disputed Lands**

The ruined Red Temple has been picked apart, its stones pulled away to build to homes, shops and inns as a new city comes to life on the long abandoned plains. But at the edge of the sea, one figure remains, a reminder of what once was – a statue of dragonglass. Eres kneels before it now, saying a silent prayer she hopes her queen may hear, for the strength to carry on her dream. She looks up to see the carved face of Daenerys Targaryen, Stormborn, Breaker of Chains. And smiles.

* * *

**The Red Keep**

The sprout of a weirwood tree springs up through the shattered tile of the painted plaza. Bran and Meera sit, watching it, as the young king remembers the day he planted the seed with his predecessor. With a squawk from above a white raven swoops down into the plaza, coming to rest at the king's feet.

"Spring is here," Meera observes. "I wonder what it will bring?"

"What if it's all going to begin again?" Bran answers after a silence. "Arya and the White Walkers in the North. The dark powers beyond Asshai and the worshippers of R'Hllor. They're all still there. What if it's just a cycle of us destroying ourselves again and again?"

"I don't think we'll ever know," Meera sighs. "We just have to try. To believe that we can do better. All of us can only do what we can, and hope that it makes a change. It's like a pebble tossed in the pond. No one can see the change. Except you. Maybe you can see the change. If you do, promise to show me."

"I promise. When I was a boy, when I still climbed, I remember no one would catch me, because no one ever thinks to look up. When you only ever look at your feet, you never realize what's possible, just out of your reach."

"Is that what we're going to do? Make them look up?"

Bran turns to her, and slowly, they kiss. "Let's go see."

Outside the castle walls, the white cloaks of the kingsguard tear fiercely in the wind as their horses pound out towards the villages beyond, trying their best to keep up with Meera on her own mount and King Brandon Stark, clinging to his white direwolf. As he bounds over a hill and disappears from sight, it seems almost as if he has learned to fly.

* * *

_A/N: While that's it. The End. The Final Episode. I hope it was more satisfying for you than the version we got on TV. I have to be honest, looking back on nearly a full year that I spent on this project, there are definitely things I wish I did differently. I wish I hadn't chosen to follow the show's trajectory so closely in some places. But in the end, I'm very happy with it, and I hope you were too. And those retrospective ideas can take shapes in new stories for the years to come. _

_Thanks so much for reading. It was a blast to spin this tale, to work with the characters and places I love so much and to unlock corners of the world the show passed over and even create some new ones of my own. As always, I love any feedback you care to leave me, and soon enough I'll have a new saga ready to begin, if you care to check it out. But for now, to quote Tyrion, "I suppose this is farewell." Catch me in 20-30 years when *knock on wood* the books are all done and my screen-writing career has taken off and I can find my way into the Writer's Room for the remake. _


End file.
